


Damnation of Memory

by ianthewaiting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-09 05:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 112,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12881565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianthewaiting/pseuds/ianthewaiting
Summary: With every generation, a Dark Wizard rises. Hermione Granger has survived one. However, after nearly thirteen years, a dead man returns to inform her that she must fight again, and this time, Harry Potter will not be the one to save the world from madness.





	1. I

**_Prologue_ **

  
  
Aberforth Dumbledore opened the Daily Prophet with a grunt, his aged shoulders paining him as he held the newsprint up to his icy blue eyes. He ignored the students from the school who had decided two years before that his pub was suddenly a fashionable place to be. Over twelve years before, Harry Potter and his friends had patronised the pub, and after the ten-year anniversary of Voldemort’s demise, the pub had become popular—just because of one boy.  
  
Blue eyes scanning the headlines, happy, deep down, that there were no more notices of disappearances, prison breakouts, and thefts of sensitive materials from the vaults of Gringotts. However, as he turned to the Classified advertisements, his eyes paused on one box of text near the bottom of the page.  
  
_Walpurgis Night is upon us! Gather your kindling for a blaze!_  
  
Below was a small image of an old, bearded man’s face, one eye missing—Odin.  
  
Aberforth set his jaw, his white beard shivering as his hands tried to calmly fold the paper and place it on the bar.  
  
“Sir? Can we get some clean glasses?”  
  
Aberforth turned, leaning against the bar to stare down at a Hufflepuff girl, a pretty child with bright blue eyes like his own, she was nervous, he could tell, but she needn’t be.  
  
With a grunt, he produced glasses from under the bar, setting them before the girl, remembering to appear surly and disgruntled.  
  
The girl scampered back to her table, her friends giggling as she meted out the glasses for their butterbeer. Aberforth watched them for some time, noting that the table, primarily Fifth or Sixth Year girls, were all from different Houses. Blue, green, red, and yellow—all sitting together, all friends...  
  
If only Albus could see what he was seeing now, thirteen years after his brother’s death.  
  
Aberforth limped toward the back of the bar, drawing his wand to Charm the sink to begin washing the dirty glasses, satisfied that the cold, murky wash water would maintain the pub’s reputation for grubbiness. Moving to sit on a stool, Aberforth’s rheumy blue eyes moved to the dark mark on the adjacent wall where Ariana’s portrait had been. One hundred and twenty-six years was a long time to live, and Aberforth had been able to gaze upon his beloved sister for one hundred and fourteen of those years.   
  
One hundred and twenty-six years—Aberforth had always believed that he would have died sooner. The Dumbledore line would die with him, at last.  
  
However.  
  
The advertisement in the Daily Prophet told Aberforth that he could not die just yet. Part of him was angry, and he wanted to begin blasting everything in sight, but part of him was relieved, for he knew that his end was soon approaching.  
  
With another grunt, he turned to watch the young people in his pub, wondering if he should be envious of their youth and vigour. His thin mouth curled into a slight smile at the sound of their voices and laughter.  
  
The young ones were so innocent, so carefree. Aberforth wished, for their sake, that their carefree days in a post-Tom Riddle world would be happy. He had lived long enough to know that their world, a world of wonder and magic, demanded a dark underside. When one Dark Lord fell, another would rise. And the lull between such evil days brought many secrets to light.  
  
The words of the advertisement drifted through his mind, and Aberforth Dumbledore knew he would have, once again, to play a shadow role in the shaping of the future.  
  
  
_Meanwhile, far to the south…_  
  
  
She woke up screaming, clutching her belly through a sweaty nightshirt. It took several moments for her to realize she was in her bed, staring at the dingy walls of her one room flat. She had returned from another terrible dream, a dream that had been growing more and more insistent in her subconscious mind ever since the Battle of Hogwarts.  
  
Glancing at the digital alarm clock on the floor next to the mattress, she realized she had slept late into the day. It was cold, but she was sweating. She could not stop shivering, and as she calmed her breathing, every trace of the dream drifted away into nothing.  
  
The only lingering sensation was the sharp pain in her womb, a sting that was more of a phantom pain. She had felt pain there once, and the dreams only brought back her body’s memory of that pain.  
  
Hermione Granger thought it a bad omen.  
  


* * *

 

 

  


**_Part One_ ** _  
  
The world wants to be deceived  
Mundus vult decipi_

  
  
_**I**_

  
_One Year Later…_  
  
I was still smiling even after arriving at Grimmauld Place, Apparating from Percy Weasley’s Islington flat. It was a nearly midnight on a balmy April day, and I felt as if it were going to begin raining at any moment.  
  
Thirty years old, unmarried, I thought myself to be an attractive professional, working for the Ministry of Magic. However, as I walked through the wards obscuring Grimmauld Place, jogging up the steps to the front door, my thoughts were far away from my work. Casting a silent spell, the door opened to the old house, and I slipped inside the narrow entryway just as raindrops began pelting the street outside.   
  
The night had been spent in the company of my good friend Percy, having enjoyed a meal, a show, and then a drink at his flat. I doffed my light cloak and hanged it on the coat rack just inside the door. Smoothing my wavy hair over one bared shoulder, I sighed in the dark. I had decided to wear a fine gown of dark red taffeta, expensive heels and a brocade bolero jacket. My hair was coiffed with ruby coloured pins and my face wore only a pale red eye shadow and lipstick. I had tried to look elegant for one evening. It truly was a rarity for me, trying to play 'elegant.'  
  
Grimmauld Place was dark and cold, as I always found it to be, and as I walked down the corridor toward the steps leading down into the kitchen, I paused. A strange sound had come from the front drawing room, and I started to walk again, assuming Kreacher was dusting the Black Family Tapestry.  
  
Grimmauld Place would forever have Kreacher, despite the elf now belonging to Harry Potter. I avoided the hideous creature as often as I could. In fact, I was wondering why in the world I had agreed to house sit for Harry and Ginny while they were on vacation. The children were at the Burrow, and Grimmauld Place, the home of the Potters, was vacant.  
  
Moving to the steps leading down into the kitchen, I could hear Kreacher’s muttering ‘Mudbloods in the house,’ and other such rubbish. I paused again, glancing back into the dark corridor behind me. Again, a strange, shuffling sound…  
  
Drawing my wand again, I slipped out of my shoes, my bare feet cold upon the wood floor.  
  
The front drawing room had been the only place where the old vestiges of the Noble House of Black remained. Harry had stuck an accord with Kreacher—the elf would not denigrate the Potter family in exchange for the continued survival of the elf’s beloved tapestry. Needless to say, the Potter family rarely entered the room, having remodeled the house with an upper story drawing room next to the library. The tatty rugs, the heads of past Black Family elves, and Walburga Black’s portrait had been moved to the cellar, Kreacher’s domain.  
  
Pressing my back into the newly papered wall, I listened near the drawing room door. Footfalls—someone was pacing was all I could hear within the room. I considered summoning Kreacher, the old elf was not to allow anyone in the house. Grimmauld Place was no longer under the Fidelius Charm, but it was warded not to allow any one but the Potters and myself inside. Kreacher acted as a ‘home security system’ of sorts, and I wondered if the barmy old elf realized that there was someone in his sanctum sanctorum.  
  
Hand grasping the knob, I turned it slowly, regulating my breathing, hoping that the latch would not squeak. When the latch opened, I gently released the knob, pushing the door open slightly to let a ray of light catch my eye. The only thing I could see was the front window, and the cobwebs moving as the figure inside paced. Pushing the door open a bit more, I winced as the hinges whinged. The figure inside did not seem to notice, and continued moving.  
  
From my angle, all I could see were black robes, dancing on the maelstrom of wind created by the figure’s movement. They were thick robes, far too thick for April. Black dragon hide boots stepped resolutely on the old worn Persian rug, the buttoned cuffs of black trousers fitting about the ankles. I could not see much else of the figure, and slowly moved in the dark corridor to the other side of the door. From the new angle, I narrowed my eyes, catching sight of the tapestry on the back wall and empty glass-faced bookshelves.  
  
The figure turned, pacing away, and as it did, a fringe of long, lank, black hair entered my field of vision. I frowned. Enough was enough, I told myself, and with a hand upon the door, pushed it open, slipping into the room, my back pressed against the jamb.  
  
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” I announced coldly, wand raised, my left hand cradling my wand hand—out of habit.  
  
The figure had its back to me, but I had never forgotten that back—wide shoulders, inky hair, which was longer as I studied it, narrow waist, long legs, and long fingers from large palms.  
  
“Turn around slowly, keep your hands away from your cloak,” I demanded, gently widening my stance, feet planted, knees bent, shoulders in line with my hips, eyes keen. “If you as much incant silently, I’ll know. I am an Auror for the Ministry of Magic…”  
  
A lie. I  _had_  been an Auror—years ago.  
  
The male figure raised its hands at the elbows, and with a twist of his boot heel, moved to face me.  
  
I used to be good at swallowing my fear and shock—that had also been years ago when I was an Auror, but as a pale face and black eyes met mine, all that mental training was for naught.  
  
“You…” I whispered, my eyes widening.  
  
Severus Snape stared back at me, onyx eyes narrowed, dark brow furrowed. His black hair had grown to a ridiculously long length, falling past his shoulders in shiny, greasy, inky curtains of raven wing black. His lips were still as thin as I remembered, as was the sharp line of his nose and jaw. However, he was not as pale as I remembered, nor was his skin an ashen olive shade. In fact, much about his face was different. There were no lines about his mouth and eyes; his skin was a healthy shade of cream. I could see the length of his eyelashes where once I had seen circles about his dark eyes. He also seemed more substantial, as if he had somehow been rejuvenated into something that looked like a man and not a vampire or wraith.  
  
His palms were open before me, and I expected to see teaching garb under his cloak, but instead was faced with a man dressed in regular clothing, only the trousers seemingly familiar with the buttons about the cuffs. He wore a matching black jerkin under the cloak, sleeveless—his wand in a holster in his belt at his left side.  
  
I blinked at the shadow of the Dark Mark on his left arm, my brow knitting.  
  
“You…” I tried again.  
  
Severus Snape blinked at me, and suddenly was whinging into my mouth as I propelled myself forward with a speed I had learned and somehow maintained years after my Auror training.  
  
I was not sure what possessed me to kiss Severus Snape, but as I did, my eyes shut, my arms about his neck, I knew I should have incapacitated him and ascertained that he was not someone under the influence of Polyjuice—not a threat.  
  
He tasted like anise drops, maybe licorice Allsorts…  
  
He pushed me away as if to toss me as far away from him as possible. The disgust written on his face did not deter me, however, I was far too happy to ever be put off my joy. His reaction, to me, was a type of verification.  
  
When my back hit the wall and the Black family tapestry, I let out a sigh. Severus Snape, a man Harry had said died nearly thirteen years earlier in the Shrieking Shack was standing in the front drawing room of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.   
  
“How dare you!” he bellowed, taking a step back from me, his black eyes glittering.  
  
I could only stare passively at the dark man, he was trying to decipher something about me, and I could feel a prod between my eyes. When he came back with nothing, his eyes began to study my body.  
  
At any other time, I was sure I would have felt self-conscious, but I was too busy studying Severus Snape in turn. He did not seem to be a man of fifty-one.  
  
Composing myself, I straightened. “I might say the same of you, sir, coming into people’s homes uninvited,” I said stiffly, still tasting anise on the tip of my tongue. I had always loved anise.  
  
Severus also straightened, crossing his arms before his chest, his face darkening with anger.  
  
“And who are you, young lady?”  
  
I opened my mouth to speak, but did not. Surely, he would remember me, the insufferable know-it-all. Of course, thirteen years had passed and I was no longer the gawky eighteen year old girl—by September I would be thirty-one, but was I so different after so long?  
  
“You are supposed to be dead, sir,” I answered by way of not answering.  
  
Severus’ face contorted briefly and he let his arms fall to his sides.  
  
“But it seems you are not…” I whispered.  
  
He frowned, his lips curling into a snarl over crooked teeth.  
  
“You know me?”  
  
I nodded, and pushed off the tapestry. Severus did not flinch when I stepped near, my eyes studying his face, his hands, the only two uncovered parts of him I could see.  
  
“I know you quite well, but it seems you do not know me.”  
  
Severus finally sighed to breathe when I stepped away from him.  
  
“Hermione Granger?” I asked an eyebrow rising in anticipation of some nasty rebuke for kissing him.  
  
Severus said nothing. It was clear by his sour expression, which I had learned years before, had varying degrees of expression that he did not have a clue as to who I was.  
  
I leaned toward him again, brows furrowing, and touched his face as I moved to the tips of my toes. He felt real and alive, but still I was puzzled. Bringing my face close, I sniffed at his jaw, his neck. I could smell anise, and potion fumes. It was as if he had stepped through some crack in time from years before to that very moment.  
  
“You know me well enough to kiss me?” he asked, his voice just as deep and sensuous as I remembered. I had missed his voice, even when it was scathing and cruel. I had always respected him, trusted him, until the very end.  
  
At his question, I began to recoil, slipping to stand fully on my feet—but found that two large hands were holding me, grasping my upper arms.  
  
He kissed me again, and I felt I would like to taste anise forever. His tongue tangled with mine, and I moaned into his mouth, my hands grasping the front of his robes. I knew I tasted like tea, a sweet chai mixture Percy had given me at his flat, but with Severus’ anise flavour, I found the chai too sweet.  
  
Severus released me, but still I kissed him, my right hand moving from his wide chest to touch his hair. It was slightly greasy, but it was real.  
  
Finally pulling away, I swayed on my feet, causing Severus to grasp my elbow to steady me. I gazed up through my lashes at his face. He did not smile; instead, he stared back at me, confusion clear in his scowl.  
  
“I assume you are a member of the Order. I need to speak with Harry Potter, immediately.”  
  
I blinked, and opened my mouth to speak, anise thick on my tongue. “You…you are really Severus Snape?”  
  
His scowl deepened. “Yes, and I need to speak to Harry Potter immediately.”  
  
I wanted to ask why. Why now? But the anise had numbed my tongue, and Severus’ face, and his kiss, had numbed my mind. And with an unattractive moan, I collapsed into Severus’ arms.  


* * *

 

  
  
It was only four months after the Last Battle that I began Auror training, one month shy of my nineteenth birthday. It had not been the career I would have chosen for myself, but it had been for Harry and Ron. The months after Voldemort’s demise had been as stressful as the ones leading up to the Last Battle of Hogwarts. The Wizarding world was in turmoil—and I followed along with my two best friends, hoping to set the world to rights.  
  
By my twenty-fourth birthday, I was no longer an Auror, and my relationship with Ron Weasley was at an end. Ron had lived outside my notice for six years by the night Severus Snape appeared in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place, and I was a near destitute Ministry employee working for the Department of Historical Documents.   
  
I had been a good Auror, too good. The pay had been wonderful, but the threat of injury not as appealing. When I left the MLE, I walked away with fantastic references, as well as an open-ended invitation to return to duty if I so desired.  
  
I had not desired to return to a life spent living out of a shrunken trunk, days without a good, hot bath, and the various injuries I sustained in the line of duty. Those days were over for me.  
  
Life had been complicated in those days. Ron Weasley had been the source of most of the complication. Unable to decide whether to be my husband and my partner in the MLE, or be my  _lover_  and my partner, had caused numerous problems.  
  
At twenty-three years old, I learned firsthand the virility of the Weasley bloodline. Despite potions and Charms, I was pregnant. Ron could only stare at me when I told him. All the precautionary measures had been for naught and I realized why Molly Weasley had had so many children. It was something about Weasley men, it seemed.  
  
It was not meant to be, however. Three days after Ron proposed marriage, I miscarried five months into the pregnancy. With the miscarriage, the proposal disappeared. I had taken a leave from work as soon as I learned I was pregnant—the stress of work had not been the cause of the miscarriage. Even unmarried, even if the pregnancy had been unplanned, I wanted the child. I wanted the child, even though I had considered refusing Ron’s proposal, a proposal made because he believed it was ‘the right thing to do.’ I loved Ron; sex had been one thing, friendship another, but marriage… I had never loved him  _that_  much.  
  
The Healers told me that ‘these things just happen sometimes, especially with first pregnancies.’ I could not formulate in my highly analytical mind why I lost the baby—a little girl… I could also not formulate why the Healers told me that I could not have children, that I should not try again, that I was never meant to have children. The field of gynecology and obstetrics in the Wizarding world was as backward as much else pertaining to the understanding of a woman’s body.   
  
Telling a young woman that she could never, should never, have children is perhaps one of the worst experiences one could face. I thought so. I had faced Dark Wizards, killed, captured, and interrogated Death Eaters… I had done so many ‘bad’ things in my life, why couldn’t I do at least ‘one’ good thing?  
  
The real depression set in when Muggle doctors explained the details of why I should never have children. Ron blamed himself, cursing his bloodline, and then, he began blaming me, irrationally. It frightened me to see Ron so upset. He had not wanted a child, not yet. He had only proposed to save face. He had told me on more than one occasion that I should not ever get pregnant, as if I were the only one to decide upon such a matter.  
  
By twenty-four, I said goodbye to many things: my nice salary, Ron, and any chance of having a family of my own. I was bitter—for approximately a year.   
  
I was strong, stronger than many gave me credit. I was also far more brilliant than most, and in my logical mind I comforted myself in thinking that if I wanted a family, there was more than one war orphan who needed a mother. I comforted myself in thinking that I did have friends who did not look upon me as a failure as Ron did—a barren wretch to be pitied. I also comforted myself in my own brilliance, no matter that my work did not pay, and that I lived in a one room flat in Sheffield, staying more often with friends than in my hovel of a flat.  
  
That spring, in my thirtieth year, I was happy to call Number 12 Grimmauld Place a home. Of course, I worried where I would go after Harry and Ginny returned from their vacation in Greece, but as it always had, things would work out.  
  
However, when I woke upon the Persian rug in the front drawing room, staring up at a familiar, supposedly dead, face, I had a sinking feeling that my life was going to get complicated once again.  
  
  


* * *

  


I directed the man who looked like Severus Snape to the kitchen, striping him of his wand. Kreacher had muttered that he had not known that ‘Master Severus’ was in the house; the old Order member had always slipped in and out of the house unnoticed before…  
  
Sitting across the plank table in the small and secluded scullery, Severus Snape stared at me, obviously annoyed. I had also stripped him of his cloak, searching it only to find a few phials of potions and a handful of red foil wrapped anise candy. He sat with his pale bare elbows resting on the plank, his hands folded on the tabletop. I stared back at him while Kreacher shuffled out the scullery and into his cupboard, muttering all the while.  
  
Severus’ arms were long, wiry muscle thickening his upper arms, tapering down to more slender forearms, covered in dark hair. My eyes lingered on the faint outline of the Dark Mark before moving to meet his eyes again. I had my wand pointed at him under the table, and sighed, having finally chosen which question to ask first.  
  
“What are in the phials?”  
  
The phials in question rested on the table between us. Three phials of a reddish potion were something I could not identify easily. I could think of at least five potions that had a reddish colour when properly brewed.  
  
“They are a sleeping draught of my own manufacture,” he answered softly, barely containing his annoyance.  
  
My brows rose. A sleeping draught? I knew of no draught of such a shade.  
  
I moved on to the next question.  
  
“I told you my name, and you did not seem to recognize it, why?”  
  
Severus moved his pale arms, sitting back on the bench to cross his arms before his wide chest.  
  
“I assume that since you are in this house, you are a member of the Order of the Phoenix?”  
  
I said nothing, narrowing my eyes. He had not answered my question.  
  
“On that assumption, I will further assume that you know Harry Potter.”  
  
I sighed. “How do  _you_  know Harry Potter?”  
  
Of course, I knew very well how Severus Snape was connected to Harry Potter. However, every time the man claiming to be Severus Snape said Harry’s name there was a cold detachment. I remembered how the Professor Snape usually said Harry’s name: in an angry hiss, or punctuated growl.  
  
Severus blinked at my question and averted his eyes to the rough tabletop. I observed the man’s dark eyes and the suddenly glazing and distance between mind and location. He was trying to remember.  
  
This fact disturbed me, and as I watched the muscles in his jaw twitch, I wondered who the man across the table truly was.  
  
“I…” he began. “I cannot remember for certain.”  
  
His voice was soft, and his arms slackened to fall to the tabletop again.  
  
“I think I taught him…”  
  
I frowned. There had to be something, anything, to ascertain whom the man across from me was—or was not.   
  
With a sigh, I asked, “Whose house is this?”  
  
Severus Snape’s eyes snapped to mine. “Black’s,” he snarled.  
  
I licked my lips. The question was not good enough. He could have ascertained the original owners by seeing the tapestry in the front drawing room. I bit the inside of my cheek and then hissed:  
  
“Snivellus.”  
  
The reaction was immediate. Severus Snape shot up from his seat, his palms slamming against the tabletop to lean over me. I did not flinch.  
  
“You have no right to call me that! Who are you?” he roared.  
  
I twirled my wand between my fingers under the table, unperturbed and not bothering to meet Severus’ eyes.  
  
“I told you who I am, sir. Now, kindly sit,” I said calmly.  
  
Slowly and mechanically, Severus Snape sat, his jaw set, his eyes flashing malevolently.  
  
“Hermione Granger…that name means nothing to me,” he growled.  
  
“What names do mean something to you?” I asked, finally meeting his eyes.  
  
Severus looked away again, hugging his arms about his chest as if cold.  
  
“Albus Dumbledore…Harry Potter… I know that this house belongs to the family of Sirius Black…the bastard who called me that ridiculous name in school…”  
  
I smirked. “And Black’s friends?”  
  
Severus nodded, his face softening. My eyes narrowed again at the vulnerability I saw in the pale man’s face.  
  
“Potter…Lupin…Pettigrew… They called themselves the ‘Marauders.’ James Potter nearly killed me in Seventh Year…”  
  
I nodded. “What else do you remember?”  
  
Severus sighed and stretched out his left arm, exposing the skin of his inner arm to the lamp light over the table.  
  
“I remember when I got this. I remember the Dark Lord. I remember that I was a spy for the Order of the Phoenix, for Albus. I remember killing Albus, and I remember that I died.”  
  
I bit my lower lip. “How can you be dead when you are here?”  
  
Severus met my eyes. “I was saved by someone. I slept for a long time, and when I woke, I was told to find Harry Potter and deliver a message.”  
  
“Who told you to find Harry?”  
  
Severus shook his head. “I cannot say.”  
  
I twirled my wand again. “Cannot or will not?”  
  
“Who are you? You said you were an Auror… Is this some Ministry sanctioned interrogation?” Severus snarled.  
  
I smirked. “Just answer the question, sir. If I like the answer, I might believe you are who claim to be.”  
  
“I am Severus Tobias Snape, damn you. My father was Tobias Snape, a Muggle, and my mother was Eileen Prince, a Pureblood witch. I grew up at a place called Spinner’s End just outside Sheffield. I went to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I was Sorted into Slytherin House, tormented by the Gryffindor ‘Marauders,’ called Snivellus… I took the Dark Mark in late 1979, and changed allegiances not long after. I was hired to the post of Potions Master in 1982…and I killed Albus Dumbledore in 1997!  
  
If that is not enough for you…you…silly witch, I will give you anything you want. Anything so I can convey my message to be out of this sodding house!”  
  
He was towering over me again, and again, I did not flinch. I had always kept a cool head. It was part of the reason why the MLE did not want to let me go.  
  
Falling back onto the bench again, Severus held his head in his hands, his unusually long hair falling about his fingers.  
  
“I will ask again, sir. You will not say who sent you here, or cannot?”  
  
“I cannot,” he answered, his voice muffled. “I am under a Fidelius Charm. I also cannot tell you were I have been, or why I am compelled to only speak to Harry Potter. Do not ask me why or what I have to tell him…I just need to speak to him.”  
  
I frowned.  
  
“If you are Severus Snape, you realize that if you speak to Harry, he will also want to ascertain that you are who claim to be. There will be others as well, who will want to know where you’ve been.”  
  
Severus peeked through his fingers at me, his black eyes haunted.  
  
“The Order?”  
  
I hesitated to nod. The Order had been disbanded for over a decade. The only older members were Arthur and Molly Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minerva McGonagall, and Rubeus Hagrid. The rest were younger, only having fought Voldemort once. In my mind, the phoenix had not risen from the ashes again since the Last Battle.  
  
“I remember… I remember that Black died,” Severus muttered, removing his hands from his face to stare at me again, haunted. “We met in his family’s house…but I can’t…” he trailed.  
  
I twirled my wand again. Memory loss, perhaps? It would require a Healer to determine if it were memory loss, and if so, to what extent. I pursed my lips.  
  
“You will stay here, in this house.”  
  
Severus’ expression hardened again, the vulnerability gone. “Potter is not here?”  
  
“Not just now.”  
  
“I can wait.”  
  
I nodded. “And so you shall. I will ask that you stay here. If you leave, you put your credibility as ‘Severus Snape’ aside. You will stay, you will submit to questioning, and you will submit to an examination by a Healer.”  
  
His brow furrowed. “Why?”  
  
Sighing again, “Verification, that should be obvious.”  
  
Severus said nothing.  
  
“I will be keeping your wand. I will have Kreacher prepare a room…where you shall stay, locked and warded inside. I will collect you in the morning, and then we’ll see about your speaking to Harry Potter.”  
  
My voice was steady and concise. I felt as if I were reciting a writ from the MLE on rights of silence.  
  
Severus opened his mouth to argue, but seeing the hardness in my eyes, kept silent.  
  
By the time I stood before the doorway of the only spare guest room, my hand on the knob, I watched Severus sit on the bed with his back to me, staring toward the window, weary from my questions, I was ready to scream. It had been Sirius’ room, and I thought it was some perverse punishment, but it was the only spare room.  
  
Shutting the door, locking and warding it, I stood barefoot just outside, listening. There was a sound of a loud sigh, then the bed creaking as if a body were lying down. Satisfied, I made my way back downstairs to the kitchen.  
  
“You got a good look, Kreacher, is it him?” I asked, kneeling near the fireplace in the kitchen, Kreacher retrieving the Floo powder from a nearby cupboard.  
  
Kreacher scowled. “Master Severus it is, Mudblood. Old Kreacher knows.”  
  
I sighed as Kreacher retreated to his cupboard again, grumbling that he hoped the ‘Mudblood’ did not need him again that night. I stared into the empty fireplace for a long while. It would be early in Greece, and surely, the Burrow was all in bed. I did not want to wake the Potter children.  
  
However, the Order, or what remained, needed to be called. Digging my hand into the pot of Floo powder, I made the first call.

 

 


	2. II

**II**  
  
I watched Severus eat in the kitchen, the early morning light streaming into the room from high windows. In the sunlight, I was struck again, at how young Severus Snape seemed. He had not aged, not since the last time I had seen him.  
  
He was still dressed in what he wore the night before, wandless, but his long hair was pulled back into a tattered red ribbon I knew he had found somewhere in Sirius’ old room. I was in a pair of baggy denims and old tee shirt with a faded imprint of The Clash’s ‘London Calling’ album cover on the front. I wore my hair in a ponytail, a cup of tea poised before my mouth.  
  
“Harry will not be coming today, but tomorrow.”  
  
Severus paused, a sausage on the end of his fork lifted halfway to his mouth. “Who is coming today?”  
  
I smirked. “Arthur Weasley, in about ten minutes.”  
  
Severus growled as he continued eating. It seemed, to me, that Severus Snape remembered Arthur Weasley. This fact was verified when Arthur entered the kitchen, stopping just at the door to stare, open mouthed at the man across the table from me.  
  
I rose, and took Arthur’s arm, helping him to sit in the seat I had vacated. I moved about the kitchen, drawing my wand from my pocket, and Charming more teacups and kettle to the table for the two men. I kept Severus’ wand hidden in a holster strapped to chest under my shirt—my old holster I used working for the MLE. I kept my wand in another holster strapped to my left forearm.  
  
Arthur stared for a long while at Severus, who, annoyed, finished his breakfast, and poured himself some tea. Arthur no longer gaped, but his wrinkled face was pale, his pale blue eyes following Severus’ motions.  
  
“How is this possible?” Arthur asked to no one in particular.  
  
I leaned back against the mantle of the kitchen fireplace, arms crossed, watching as Severus began to study Arthur in turn.  
  
“That is what I would love to know, myself, Arthur,” I answered. “This man, Severus Snape…”  
  
“…hasn’t aged a day since the Last Battle,” Arthur finished.  
  
Severus smirked. “Unlike you, Arthur…”  
  
Arthur reddened. It had been the sound of Severus’ voice, I knew. The voice was unmistakably Severus’.  
  
“You realize, that if you are him…Severus, that we will have to question you under Veritaserum…”  
  
I shook my head. “I doubt it will be affective,” I asserted.  
  
Severus met my eyes with a smug smirk. “I have a limited tolerance, but it would not be a bad idea.”  
  
Arthur cleared his throat nervously. “Hermione has informed me that you cannot remember much about your life, or how you were able to survive…”  
  
Severus sipped his black tea, his dark eyes moving to Arthur again. Slowly, he set the tea aside.  
  
“I remember the Dark Lord’s snake striking me in the throat…”  
  
Severus turned his neck to the sunlight, and for the first time, I saw the scars. If Severus had not been so pale, I would have noticed sooner, the puncture wounds of fangs.  
  
“If I remember correctly, Arthur, you were attacked by the same snake?”  
  
Arthur’s face paled again, his eyes moving to mine. “Not many knew about that…”  
  
“Nagini?” Severus asked in a near coo.  
  
Arthur nodded, meeting my eyes again. I knew then that Arthur was convinced. It was true, only a few knew the true circumstances of Arthur’s hospital stay in late 1995. A plausible excuse had been given to the Healers, but only the Order knew the exact nature of his Arthur’s near death experience, Snape included.  
  
“You do not exactly remember Harry?” Arthur then asked.  
  
“I taught him…”  
  
“And your past, do you remember the Order members of the first war?”  
  
My eyes narrowed as Severus’ eyes clouded as if trying to slip backward into his mind to recall names and faces.  
  
“Black, Lupin…Potter and his wife…”  
  
I blinked. ‘Potter and his wife?’ I had known ever since Harry had watched Snape’s ‘supposed’ death that Snape had been close to Lily Potter—the memories had shown Harry that truth.  
  
“Lily Evans?” I asked, moving to sit next to Arthur.  
  
Severus’ eyes were still distant. “I think that was her name.”  
  
I glanced to Arthur. After so many years, Arthur, too, had learned the truth about Snape—the whole, remaining Order had. Harry had even named one of his children after Severus Snape, learning that after seven years, Severus Snape had always tried to protect him, in his own way.  
  
“What do you remember of her?” Arthur asked, leaning with his elbows on the table.  
  
I jabbed the older man gently, shaking my head. It was not the time for those sorts of questions.  
  
“Nothing but her name,” Severus answered, causing me to snap my eyes to him.  
  
Biting my lip, my eyes moved to the tabletop. I knew I would have to research… Was it possible that when Snape gave up his memories of Lily Evans-Potter, that he affectively lost all memory of her? What of his other memories?  
  
“We need to call the Order. Harry and Ginny should be back late tonight,” Arthur whispered to me as Severus’ distant eyes were fixed on his shadow on the tabletop. “There is obviously something not right here, and I don’t just mean the fact that Severus Snape is alive.”  
  
I agreed, in part, however, I did not think we should recall the Order just yet.  
  
Almost thirteen years before, Snape’s body had never been recovered, but there was enough blood in the Shrieking Shack for the Ministry to easily assume Snape was dead. Many in the MLE believed that one of the Death Eaters had come to collect the body just before the Last Battle, but no one knew for certain. Severus Snape had been listed as dead for almost thirteen years.  
  
Obviously, by Severus Snape’s own words, someone had helped him. Someone had healed him, and someone had sent him to Grimmauld Place with a message for Harry Potter. If the message was not to be astounding, the messenger certainly was.  


* * *

  
  
  
After the miscarriage, I feared that the Weasleys would shun me. Of course, it had been a conception brought about by my own depression. The Weasleys, excluding Ron, were sympathetic. Molly and Ginny had been the most sympathetic of all. Molly had miscarried six times, and Ginny twice before Albus was born. My own mother had many miscarriages before I was born—and my isolation disappeared. It was strange to me that the women around me had had so many problems, but when I learned I could not have children, it did not surprise me as much as I first thought.  
  
The Weasleys had been as much family as I would ever need. After the War, after Ron, I spent most of my time with Percy Weasley, surprising most of the family. Percy was divorced, a high-ranking Ministry official, and could easily keep up with me in conversation. It was only ever conversation and friendship that Percy and I shared. However, when I left the MLE, it had been Percy who found me a new career, a career more suited to my intellect.  
  
The Department of Historical Records was an under funded, little known department that was attached to the Department of Intelligence, the department Percy Weasley headed. The Department of Intelligence was new, one of many things instituted after the War. The DHR, as I called it, consisted of two employees: Hestia Jones and myself. Hestia had the contacts; I did the ‘legwork.’  
  
I was considered a glorified ‘art historian.’ Of course, this consideration did not bother me in the least. My job was to catalogue all the magical portraits in the United Kingdom. Who painted the portrait, who is the portrait of, where is the portrait located, and most importantly, what information did the portrait have to impart.  
  
It was work for the sake of historical record—and it was busy work, but I enjoyed it. I learned a great deal from the Headmaster’s portraits at Hogwarts, history that was overlooked because the actual person was dead, but the portraits remembered everything.  
  
There were some portraits that shouted more expletives than pertinent historical information, but I did not mind. I had been an Auror, and endured hours of Death Eaters shouting at me, denigrating my Muggle birth, among other things. Often times the portraits were happy to babble for hours, having not spoken to anyone for ages.  
  
I had worked my way through the public portraits and had begun requesting audiences with individual families. Some families were hesitant to let an outsider speak to the portraits, afraid that the ancestor would reveal a secret, or, most odd of all, the family believed me to be slightly unstable to want to talk to a portrait. Put in that manner, it did sound strange.  
  
What information I gathered, I added to a long running file, submitting additions to Percy. The last portrait I had spoken with had been Walburga Black in the cellar of Grimmauld Place the day before Severus Snape appeared in the front drawing room. The conversation had been rather one-sided and I had yet to file my notes.  
  
A year before, in what I called one of great successes, I was allowed the opportunity to speak to Abraxas Malfoy, Draco Malfoy’s paternal grandfather. After the War, the Malfoys kowtowed to the Ministry, thus allowing me near unlimited access to the Wiltshire Manor and the great attic portrait gallery as long it reflected well upon the Malfoys in the eyes of the Ministry. The hospitality was cool, but I was allowed a week to speak to twelve portraits of Malfoy ancestors. Abraxas Malfoy had been the most interesting.  
  
Abraxas Malfoy made only comment about me, and it had been complimentary. I rarely mentioned that I was a Muggle-born to the portraits, but most deduced my origin since my name was not one among those of the greater Wizarding families. Abraxas had only commented that my eyes were the most peculiar shade of gold he had ever seen—I had always through them to be a light hazel/brown.  
  
“Have you head of the Knights of Walpurgis, Miss Granger?” Abraxas had asked.  
  
I sat on a Conjured armchair, Muggle biro and writing tablet on my lap.  
  
“In passing. My research has turned up little other than the Death Eaters were once, supposedly, called the Knights of Walpurgis.”  
  
Abraxas scoffed. “Nonsense. Tom Riddle was not nearly as smart as he liked to think. He came across the name in a book, which mentioned very little, I am sure. He liked the name, as it is a pun, and fancied his group to be ‘knights.’ ‘Death Eaters’ have a much better sound.”  
  
I said nothing.  
  
“The Knights of Walpurgis was a secret society…and would never reveal themselves like Riddle’s Death Eaters.”  
  
“Why did you ask me about them?” I ventured.  
  
Abraxas smiled, knowingly. “To see if they have revealed themselves.”  
  
The conversation shifted from that point, but I noted Abraxas’ words.  
  
In the office, I tried researching the Knights of Walpurgis, and just as Abraxas had said, found little. A secret society—one so secret that there was no mention of them in historical texts. So secret that even the Deathly Hallows had been easier to find and understand. The concept intrigued me.  
  
Three months before Severus Snape appeared, I heard of the Knights of Walpurgis again from the portrait of Arcturus Black, an ancestor of Sirius’. I had found the portrait in the house that had once been the Lestranges, which had fallen to the Ministry when the family was given the Dementor’s Kiss.  
  
“I am not surprised that madness manifested in that generation,” Arcturus said to me in the dark, dusty bedroom that had once belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange. “That girl was destined for the Kiss. And I, being just a portrait, had endured her madness for years.   
  
Who is left of my line?”  
  
I gently told the Black ancestor that only Draco Malfoy and Teddy Lupin were left. No one carried the surname of Black, and would never again do so.  
  
“A pity.”  
  
Conversation turned toward the historical. Black family history, history that the portrait remembered when it was alive…  
  
“The Knights of Walpurgis. I am thankful that they have not been uncovered.”  
  
“Who are they?” I asked.  
  
Arcturus barked a laugh that reminded me very much of Sirius.  
  
“I have said too much already, young lady…”  
  
Again, I was intrigued. My research led nowhere, and two portraits, which had mentioned the organization, was hesitant to speak of it. By the time Severus Snape had arrived, I had set my interest in the Knights of Walpurgis aside.  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Harry Potter, at age twenty-nine, was an imposing man with bright emerald eyes, handsome long black hair, and a faded silver scar on his forehead. He no longer wore glasses, and no longer wore hand-me-down clothes. He was an Auror, a husband, and father. He was also the master of Grimmauld Place, inheriting it from the last Black.  
  
He stalked down the corridor of his home, his wife on his heels.  
  
Ginny Potter was a svelte woman of twenty-eight, only five months pregnant with her third child. Her long auburn hair swayed as she walked, her blue eyes flashing in the lamplight of the corridor. Ginny was the foremost Healer at St. Mungo’s, specializing in spell damage. Two years prior, she had made a break through in treating Alice and Frank Longbottom, allowing them moments of lucidity—a cure was forthcoming.  
  
The Potters had gone on a much needed vacation, and having to cut it three days short was not making either incredibly happy. Harry’s face was set, his lips bloodless from pressing them together.  
  
After checking on James and Albus, they had Apparated to Grimmauld Place late in the evening after Arthur had arrived that morning.  
  
I watched from my spot by the fireplace as Harry and Ginny entered the kitchen, Kreacher bowing low at the return of his masters. However, neither of the Potters paid a thought to their elf, but stared at the man sitting at the table, who was reading an evening edition of the Daily Prophet.  
  
Slowly, Severus lowered the paper to regard the two new people in the kitchen. Arthur had not left, and was sitting at the far end of the table, drinking tea.  
  
Harry and Severus stared at each other for a long time, and I wondered if they were simply sizing each other up or if some sort of spell had been spun between them.  
  
Ginny was first to break the silence, moving to her father.  
  
“Is it true?” Ginny whispered.  
  
Arthur sighed, placing his cup on the kitchen table. “As far as I can tell. You should examine him… I believe there is some memory loss.”  
  
I moved my eyes from Ginny to Severus.  
  
“Harry Potter,” he said, as if to ascertain that he was staring at the correct person.  
  
Harry took a step toward the table, his hand reaching for his wand in the holster on his belt.  
  
“You died. You are dead…and you cannot be him!” Harry hissed.  
  
A wand was drawn, but I moved, floating over the floor to stand before Harry in a blink of an eye. My hand grasped his wrist, forcing his hand down, as well as his wand.  
  
“Not yet,” I whispered. “Think, Harry…think!”  
  
Harry’s eyes moved to my face and slowly the anger that had welled up was gone. Ginny was on her feet, her hand poised to draw her wand as well, but seeing that I had moved first, relaxed.  
  
“We’ll need Veritaserum, Harry, only after Ginny has examined him. Only you can get it. I will be here if something happens…as well as Arthur. Ginny will be fine.”  
  
Harry’s face contorted, glancing over my head to Severus’ impassive face.  
  
“Ten minutes,” he muttered.  
  
I released my old friend and stepped back, allowing Harry to move to the fireplace and Floo away in a flash of green. Glancing to Ginny, I moved, drawing my own wand. Ginny nodded and moved around the table.  
  
“Professor, I need to run a few diagnostic spells. Please don’t move,” Ginny said softly, trying not to let her voice quaver.  
  
Severus nodded slowly, hesitant at the address of ‘Professor,’ and closed his eyes as Ginny stood directly behind him, casting several spells that I did not recognize. Arthur and I watched silently as Ginny’s face moved to display several different emotions.  
  
Five minutes passed, sweat beading on Ginny’s brow, and finally she stepped away, moving to sit next to her father. Severus opened his eyes and gazed directly at me.  
  
“I will have to verify a few readings with Madame Pomfrey, Professor Snape’s medical records should still be on file there…but as far as I can tell, the Dark Mark is legitimate. This man was a Death Eater.”  
  
Ginny Conjured a handkerchief and dabbed at her forehead.  
  
“I would have to take him to St. Mungo’s to diagnose him to the particular type of memory loss…there has been spell damage to his body, his brain. There are also latent traces of a poison or venom in his blood.  
  
His vitals are all within the norms. Besides muscle and bone strain, he is a healthy thirty-eight year old man.”  
  
I looked to Severus again, who strangely, had a frown upon his lips.  
  
“Of course, if he is Severus Snape, it would be impossible that my readings would indicate that he is thirty-eight years old,” Ginny continued, her eyes flashing.  
  
“I am a mystery to myself, Miss…”  
  
“Potter. Her maiden name is Weasley,” I supplied.  
  
Severus smirked. “She resembles her father then…of course, the red hair should have been an indicator.”  
  
The kitchen fell silent. Ginny was clearly upset, and I considered telling her to get some rest, but before I could speak, the Floo activated, and Harry stepped out, a phial of clear liquid in his hand.  
  
Harry wasted no time, sitting down in front of Severus, passing the phial to the dark man. Severus hesitated before taking the phial, his eyes moving to me. I pursed my lips, and Severus took the phial, uncorking it, and drinking the entire dose.  
  
Ginny moved to her father again, and the two Weasleys began whispering to each other. I paid them little mind, knowing that in a few moments I would know some form of the truth.  
  
I sat next to Harry, resting my elbows on the table, leaning toward Severus.  
  
“What is your name?” Harry asked, frustration clear in his voice.  
  
Severus took a breath, closing his eyes. “Severus Tobias Snape.”  
  
“What did you teach at Hogwarts?”  
  
“Potions, Defence against the Dark Arts…”  
  
“Is that all?”  
  
“I was Headmaster from 1997 to 1998…”  
  
Harry glanced at me and sighed.  
  
“To whom do you swear allegiance?”  
  
Severus opened his eyes, and smirked. “Depends on the day of the week.”  
  
Harry’s jaw clenched. “Who?”  
  
“Lord Voldemort…”  
  
Harry stiffened.  
  
“…and Albus Dumbledore…the Order of the Phoenix.”  
  
“Your moniker in a potions book?”  
  
“I called myself the Half-Blood Prince.”  
  
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”  
  
Severus sighed. “I am a half-blood. My father was Muggle, my mother Pure-blooded. I explained this to Ms. Granger.”  
  
I rolled my eyes at Severus’ address.  
  
“Why are you here?”  
  
I watched the corners of Severus’ mouth twitch.  
  
“I am to deliver a message to Harry Potter.”  
  
Harry frowned.  
  
“From whom?”  
  
Severus opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. Again, and again, no sound came.  
  
“He said he was under the Fidelius, Harry, when I tried to ask the same question. I am supposing that he can only speak this message to you alone…”  
  
Harry nodded, glancing to Ginny, who needed no prompting. Arthur and Ginny left the kitchen. I rose, hesitating.  
  
“We’ll be just outside the door,” I whispered, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder before exiting, shutting the door behind me.  
  
In the dark, I stood with Arthur and Ginny, unable to hear any voices beyond the kitchen door.  
  
“I should Floo Poppy…” Ginny muttered, moving up the stairs and into the house above.  
  
Arthur and I stared at the steps under our feet.  
  
“It is as if he walked through some rift in time…” Arthur whispered.  
  
I agreed. All Severus needed was his teaching robes, a haircut, and a strict diet, and he would be exactly that figure I remembered from years before.  
  
The fact that Severus could only reveal his whereabouts, and a message to Harry, made me wary. Voldemort had been dead for nearly thirteen years, and most of the Death Eaters were dead or incarcerated, but still there were those left who resented Harry, the Order, and anyone who believed the world would be perfect without such evil. Severus’ disappearance, reappearance, all of it, could be a trap—a ‘thirteen years in the making’ trap.  
  
Minutes passed, and I sat on the dark steps, beginning to feel quite tired. More time passed, and when Ginny returned, she beckoned Arthur and I up onto the first floor, standing under the gas lamps of the corridor.  
  
In her hands, she held medical records, everything Pomfrey ever had on Severus, starting from his First Year at Hogwarts, Ginny explained.  
  
“Checking the readings I took from my diagnostic Charms against these records…which stop one month before the Last Battle, and Professor Snape’s last sighting…the man in the kitchen with Harry  _is_  Severus Snape.”  
  
I glanced to Arthur.  
  
“Of course, it does not explain why he has not aged, or the spell damage affecting his memory…” Ginny trailed, passing the folder to me, still covered in soot from where I assumed it had been passed through the Floo. “I am not certain whether to call the memory loss ‘damage.’ It seems as if some of his memory has been excised purposely. I would have to get him to St. Mungo’s to be sure.  
  
Has he performed any magic?”  
  
I shook my head. “I took his wand as soon as I found him in the front drawing room.”  
  
Ginny sighed, leaning back into the corridor wall. “Did he tell you how he arrived?”  
  
I shook my head again. “I was more in shock that he was here than to ask. But I will. Kreacher claims that he did not know Severus Snape was here.”  
  
Arthur rubbed a hand over his face. “It is clear that he knew this place to be the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Of course, toward the end of the War, it was not really a secret.  
  
As for taking him to St. Mungo’s…it would cause a stir. Severus Snape has been presumed dead for almost thirteen years. He won’t face prosecution since the statute ran out two years ago…but there are still people who would like nothing better than tear this man apart.”  
  
Arthur was very right. Severus Snape was never exonerated, formally. The Ministry was full aware of Snape’s role in the War, after the fact. The Ministry had even awarded the Order of Merlin First Class, posthumously, but never got around to pardoning him.  
  
“Not to mention the man has not aged since the Last Battle. Alive, and unchanged? He would be a test subject besides a war criminal,” Ginny added.  
  
We fell into our respective silences.  
  
Only a few moments passed before I heard the door open, and glancing to Ginny and Arthur, moved toward the kitchen.  
  
Inside, Severus was standing near the fireplace while Harry stood near the door. I entered first, thankful to find that there were no curse burns marking the walls and both men were in one piece. Ginny and Arthur followed, moving to the far end of the kitchen to the door to the scullery.  
  
“He doesn’t remember me,” Harry said flatly, his arms across his chest.  
  
I stood next to Harry, studying Severus’ slumped shoulders as leaned against the mantle.  
  
“He doesn’t remember Mum, or anything about why he saved me time and time again…”  
  
I glanced to Harry’s face, which was not angry, but filled with unspeakable sorrow.  
  
“When he gave me those memories, they were wiped from his mind,” Harry continued. “He’s lost, Hermione…and the only reason he had to speak to me was because the Knights of Walpurgis told him to…”  
  
I blinked, moving to stand before Harry.  
  
“What did you say?” I whispered, eyes widening.  
  
Harry sighed. “He can tell you now…the oath has been broken…you should have been the one he told anyway…”  
  
I frowned, “What do you mean?”  
  
Harry’s hands moved to cradle my face, and I stiffened. Harry only every cradled my face when he had bad news—and I had hoped I had heard the last of ‘bad news’ for a long time yet.  
  
“It is your turn to save the world. Harry Potter stopped Voldemort. Hermione Granger must stop the next Dark Lord.”  
  
I gaped. “What the fu-“  
  
“It’s true, Miss Granger. From what I have been told,” Severus said softly from the fireplace.  
  
I shrugged out of Harry’s hands and whirled to face Severus, who was gazing at me with a sad smirk.  
  
“Who told you? What did they tell you?” I asked, my voice rising in anger.  
  
Harry took hold of my shoulders as I began to move toward Severus. I tried to break free, but Harry’s grasp was too strong. I found myself forced down into a kitchen chair, Harry pinning with his hands pressing down on my shoulders. Severus moved to sit across from me, his onyx eyes flashing.  
  
“The Knights of Walpurgis. You have heard of them?”  
  
I frowned, glancing toward Arthur and Ginny who stood together, faces aghast.  
  
“They are the ones who sent me.”  
  
If possible, my frown deepened. “Who are they?”  
  
Severus sighed. “They are a group of witches and wizards, a secret society, whose existence reaches back even before the founding of Hogwarts. Helga Hufflepuff and Salazar Slytherin were members, but you would never find that in ‘Hogwarts, a History.’”  
  
My body relaxed. “That sounds unlikely…Hufflepuff and Slytherin, together, in a society?” I muttered.  
  
A dark brow rose. “Do not judge, Miss Granger. Petty differences aside, people with different views and ethics  _can_  come together for a singular purpose.”  
  
I felt as if I were in the classroom again.  
  
“And what purpose is that?”  
  
Severus glanced to Harry whose hands were still on my shoulders.  
  
“It varies. I am not privy to as many secrets as you might think. However, the message I was sent here to convey deals with more immediate matters.”  
  
Severus paused, Harry’s hands moving from my shoulders. I glanced out of the corner of my eye as Harry moved to Arthur and Ginny, whispering too low for me to hear.  
  
“Every age, a Dark Wizard rises. Unfortunately, in the past one hundred and twenty years, we have seen two. We are about to see a third. This is part of what the Knights wanted to tell Harry Potter…and you, Miss Granger.  
  
Now, let me ask some questions of you, and I hope you will not have to send Mr. Potter off to the Ministry again for another dose of Veritaserum.”  
  
The sarcastic tone sent shivers through me, and again, out of the corner of my eye, I watched Harry escort Ginny from the kitchen and Arthur to the Floo. When both were gone, Harry sat down beside me, nodding to Severus as if to pass along a secret.  
  
“I had to tell Mr. Potter first because the Knights  _knew_  to trust him. Having vanquished one Dark Lord is something to be admired,” Severus uttered with a smirk. “However, it was not just that. Mr. Potter was the closest link the Knights could find to identifying the next Dark Wizard.”  
  
I swallowed thickly. “The closest link?”  
  
Severus nodded. “From what I have been told, this new Dark Wizard is getting very close to something the Knights have sworn to protect. With Grindlewald…with V-Voldemort,” Severus stuttered, but continued, “…the Knights kept to the shadows. Neither Dark Lord threatened to uncover that one thing which the Knights protect. However… Someone, or something inside the Ministry of Magic has been prying too close to the Knights and their secret.”  
  
I held my breath.  
  
“How do you know of the Knights?”  
  
I exhaled.  
  
“My…my work.”  
  
“Which Mr. Potter has explained. You have heard of the Knights from the portraits you interview.”  
  
I nodded, my stomach heavy with dread.  
  
“The portraits have only ever mentioned the Knights of Walpurgis, but never explained why or what it was. A secret society, which has not been exposed. That is all I know.”  
  
Severus frowned.  
  
“Honestly,” I added.  
  
Harry made a noise, and Severus’ dark eyes flashed to my friend and back to me.  
  
“Have you mentioned the Knights of Walpurgis to anyone?”  
  
My stomach sank. “It is in my reports of the Department of Intelligence…a mention, and nothing more…” I whispered, eyes widening.  
  
Severus sat back in his chair. “Department of Intelligence?” Severus’ eyes glazed over, “I have no recollection of this…”  
  
“It was formed a year after the Battle of Hogwarts,” Harry supplied. “Its initial function was to gather intelligence of rogue Death Eater activity so the MLE could move on that intelligence. Since then, the department has become more a watchdog group…internal affairs for the MLE, ‘homeland security,’ or so some call it.”  
  
The onyx eyes shined again, and I looked away to the tabletop.  
  
“Interesting,” was the only comment Severus made.  
  
“The question is, Hermione, one that I waited to pose Prof-Severus is this: if another Dark Wizard is on the rise, what are we supposed to do about it?” Harry asked, leaning toward the table.  
  
“Find him or her before the world is turned on its head again,” was Severus’ answer. “The Knights have one true goal…to protect a secret. This secret is now threatened.”  
  
I frowned. “Why us? I know you said the Knights trusted Harry…but why us? Why you?”  
  
Severus shook his head. “I cannot answer everything, Miss Granger. I am just a messenger.  
  
All I know is to tell you this information, and urge you to act to counter whatever it is to come.  
  
My instructions after that… There are no instructions after that.”  
  
I sighed and rubbed my face. “That is not enough.”  
  
Harry laid a hand on my shoulder and I stiffened instinctually. Through my lashes, I watched Severus, whose eyes narrowed at Harry’s familiar gesture.  
  
“How could we begin to act with so little information?” I asked more to myself than to the two men in the kitchen. “I will accept that you are Severus Snape, and I will accept that you are not here to harm me or Harry, for the time being.”  
  
Severus nodded.  
  
“However, I, for one, want to know how you survived Nagini’s attack, and how you have not aged in thirteen years!”  
  
My frustration had reached the point of anger, and I stared pointedly into the black eyes across the table, demanding answers.  
  
Severus sat back in his chair and crossed his pale, muscular arms.  
  
“The ones who aided me were meant to be unknown to me. Even if you sifted through my mind, you will not find names or faces, Ms. Granger.  
  
All I can tell you is that the Knights of Walpurgis aided me, saved my life, and instructed me to come here. As to not aging, I could not tell you by what device such a thing is possible outside of Dark Magic. And I would know if some Dark spell were upon me.”  
  
Harry frowned again; it seemed the only expression besides blankness that he could manage.  
  
“You understand our reaction, Snape?” Harry asked.  
  
Severus sighed and nodded again.  
  
“Do you have any way of contact these Knights? Why haven’t they come personally?” Harry asked again.  
  
Severus rolled his eyes. “I suppose because they wanted to get your attention first by sending a man you believed dead? Think Potter, if you were an organization who wanted to remain secret, wouldn’t you send an agent first?”  
  
Severus was right, but still I was speculative. I also knew that the mention of an organization of the Knights of Walpurgis could not be a coincidence.  
  
I needed to get back to the Ministry. My files, my notes, everything I had mentioned about the Knights of Walpurgis were there.  
  
No.  
  
I closed my eyes. I had learned early to always keep a backup copy of everything, because in darker times, information, like lists of DA members or possible locations of Horcruxes could be stolen or destroyed.  
  
I had copied everything into a journal stowed safely in my Sheffield flat, a place chosen for its obvious lack of magic. No one would think to look there, I hoped.   
  
I had Charmed every file I had ever written to automatically copy to what I called my ‘Codex of Time.’ It was a silly title, I knew, but I never planned to let anyone see the Codex, which was little more than a black leather bound book, an enchiridion, a journal.  
  
As I opened my eyes and realized that both Harry and Severus were staring at me, I flushed.  
  
“I have a feeling…” I began, but trailed, noting Severus’ concern. “This is my fault.”  
  
Harry turned to me. “What do you mean?”  
  
I shook my head, my ponytail swishing against my shoulders. “Tomorrow will tell.”  
  
Harry blinked. Tomorrow was a workday for me, and I had a feeling that Severus’ sudden reemergence back into mine and Harry’s life, had been prompted by some thing I had done, not out of carelessness, but out of ignorance.  


* * *

  
  
  
  
For years after the Battle of Hogwarts, I had had dreams. All of us, all who fought in the War had dreams, all attributed to post-traumatic stress. However, I did not dream of the War often, and I did not dream about Voldemort.  
  
When I was pregnant, the dreams had been the worst, and usually, almost always, the same. The night before I miscarried, I had had the most vivid dream of the series, and for years, I could not tell anyone that after that particular dream my subconscious life had become my personal hell.  
  
Ron had gotten used to me waking up in the middle of the night screaming, and for as long as we had been together, he had always soothed me back to a dreamless sleep. But after the miscarriage, and finding myself sleeping alone, I learned how to cope with the dreams.  
  
It was not until almost a year before Severus Snape appeared in Grimmauld Place, out of place and out of time, did the dreams change.  
  
The night before I miscarried, I dreamt of a tree, a great yew tree that seemed support my whole dream—an axis mundi. This tree was in a graveyard as most yew trees were in Britain, but I did not know the graveyard, and the stones were distorted and indistinct in my dream. The sky above the great tree was red, as was everything, cast in red light like an evening sky before a storm.  
  
In my dream, I stood just before the thick trunk of the yew, which I knew, had to be centuries old. And always, I reached to touch the wood, reaching toward a crack between the bark, reaching for something I felt compelled to grasp.  
  
The night before I miscarried, my fingers found something inside the tree, something warm and alive. In the red sky’s light, I stepped closer to peer inside the crack in the tree, and at the point in that particular dream, I saw my fingers sinking into the flesh of a placenta filled with a half formed child.  
  
The last dream I had of the yew tree had been almost the same, except for inside the tree was not my unborn child. I grasped the cool fingers of a man whose face was obscured by the grain of the wood. In the last dream, I did not wake immediately as I usually did, but instead, began pulling upon the man’s hand in the tree, trying to tug the man out of the tree. I had a right arm free when it decided to come to life and press its palm into my belly, where my womb was full in my dream with my baby. I awoke in pain, screaming for no one to hear and no one to come.  
  
I did not dream of the yew tree again for a year.  
  
I knew what the yew represented, and I knew that I dreamt about them because I, in my love for symbolism, knew the tree to be a symbol of life and death.  
  
I had dreamt of the death of my unborn child, and I had dreamt of the resurrection of a man.  
  
The yew tree was no longer my axis mundi of my subconscious life by the time Severus Snape appeared. Instead, I dreamt of another tree, an apple tree; a symbol of immortality, of magic.  
  
The night before I would return to work, Severus Snape confined to Sirius’ old room, I dreamt of that apple tree. It was as monstrously large as the yew tree of my dreams past, bearing golden apples that looked too perfect to eat. Instead of a graveyard, my axis mundi was atop a hill surrounded by mist and water.   
  
It was not a nightmare, staring at the tree and the apples, but it was disconcerting all the same for the only other thing in my dream besides the hill and the tree, was a woman who looked very much like my mother. In my dream, she was telling me not to eat the apples for they were poisoned by madness.  
  
I had variations of the dream at times, and the night before returning to work, Severus Snape in the other room, I dreamt that he stood next to me, staring at the tree.  
  
“She tells us that the apples will make us mad, do you believe her?” Severus asked, the fingers of his right hand tangling with the fingers of my left hand.  
  
My mother smiled warmly.  
  
“I do.”  
  
“Then should we cut the tree down?” Severus asked glancing to me.  
  
He was dressed just as he was when I had last laid eyes upon him in the kitchen.  
  
“No. We should forget we ever saw it.”

 

 


	3. III

**III**  
  
Harry still had time off from work and agreed to stay with Severus at Grimmauld Place while I would Floo to the Ministry. Ginny had returned to the Burrow to see to the Potter boys, only after swearing that she would not say a word to anyone but her father about Severus Snape taking shelter in her home. The issue of where to place the man would have to be addressed soon, but I was more concerned about getting to my office.  
  
With my hair up in a hasty bun, dressed in a set of pale blue robes, I was halfway down the corridor to the office I shared with Hestia Jones when I saw that men in unmarked black robes were moving in and out of the office door.  
  
“You cannot do this! I want to speak to your supervisor immediately!”  
  
Hestia’s voice rang out in distress, and automatically I had my wand out, running as fast as I could in two-inch heels towards the sound of her voice.  
  
I forcefully knocked into one of the men carrying a box of papers from my office, spilling the contents of the box into the near empty corridor floor.  
  
I did not apologize as I found Hestia, a short, black haired witch, sobbing in the middle of the tiny office as two men clumsily swiped every paper, every book, and every file on our desks into boxes.  
  
I hated when my feelings were correct.  
  
Glancing to Hestia, who was wringing her hands violently before her robes, I grasped the nearest man by the collar and pressed my wand tip into his throat. Immediately every man dropped what he was doing and had their wands trained on me.  
  
I studied the man’s face that was turning red from the manner in which I twisted his collar about his throat.  
  
“Who the hell are you people, and what are you doing to our office?” I growled.  
  
In the past few years, I rarely had to revert to playing the ‘intimidating Auror,’ but to see sweet Hestia so upset I let the Auror out of its cage.  
  
All through school, I had kept a tight rein on my temper. Of course, it slipped from time to time, usually resulting in me slapping or punching Draco Malfoy in the nose. However, I would let the Auror out when I wanted answers.  
  
“We are part of the Department of Intelligence, Ms. Granger, and we have reason to believe that the information you have been gathering is far too sensitive to remain in your care,” one of the dark robed men answered from the door.  
  
“Where’s the order? Who authorized this?”  
  
The man in the doorway produced a scroll and passed it to Hestia, the only person who did not have a wand drawn.   
  
“This action has been authorized by the Head of the Department of Intelligence and the Minister’s Offices, Ms. Granger.”  
  
I released the man and lowered my wand. I took a breath and moved to Hestia who was busy unrolling the scroll, and together, we read. Hestia hiccupped on her sobs while I clenched my teeth.  
  
All around us, the office was laid bare, even personal items taken, and I knew there was nothing I could do about it.  
  
‘…information too sensitive for this small office to continue to safely protect…hereby dissolved…please report to the Secretary of the Department of Intelligence for reassignment…’  
  
Hestia collapsed into her office chair when the last man left with the remnants of several years’ tireless work.  
  
I stalked to the door, and peering into the corridor, slammed the door shut, falling back against the wood, staring at the floor.  
  
“How can they do this, Hermione? Years of work…gone! What provocation, what reason could the Department have to seize everything?” Hestia wailed, burying her pink-cheeked face into her hands.  
  
I shook my head. I had an idea, but I could not involve Hestia.  
  
As I let my eyes roam through the now desolate office, finding it much larger now that everything was gone, I knew I needed to go back to Grimmauld Place.  
  
For the Ministry to seize all my research was a sign that I had inadvertently stumbled upon something the Ministry or someone high in the Ministry wanted. The current Minster of Magic, Malfalda Hopkirk had paid no attention to my office before, and I knew that it was doubtful that anyone in the Minister’s Offices had even a budding interest in my work. This thought left only my department. The men who had collected everything ‘claimed’ to be part of the Department of Intelligence, yet I did not recognize a single face of those who had little taken my career away from me.  
  
Percy.  
  
“What are we going to do, Hermione? They want to reassign us!” Hestia wailed.  
  
I wondered why I was not distraught. In fact, I had almost anticipated that something like this would happen, and it all had to do with the Knights of Walpurgis.  
  
“We do what we have been told, Hestia. Go to the Secretary’s office and be reassigned,” I said flatly, pushing off the door to turn to grasp the knob.  
  
“What about you?” Hestia sobbed, jumping to her feet.  
  
Oddly, I felt my lips curl as I turned to my colleague.  
  
“I feel that my career with the Ministry of Magic is over.”  


* * *

  
  
  
As my heels tapped into the linoleum of the corridor stretching toward the Head’s office at the far end, I suspected that Percy knew I was coming.  
  
I had a million half formed thoughts rattling through my brain, but the one that kept popping up again and again was: There is a Dark Lord in one of these offices.  
  
I could not explain why I was accepting Severus Snape’s message without learning more about the ones who had sent him. I could not explain why I felt in my very bones that something dark was looming on the horizon—a storm rolling in. I also could not explain why I felt my blood boil in my veins, propelling my mind five feet in front of my body as if I were somehow disconnected from the present time.  
  
I just knew that if the Knights of Walpurgis were real, they wanted me to act in some manner. However, something or someone was at least a half step in front of me, beating me at my own game.  
  
I almost felt as if I were seventeen again, trying to outwit Voldemort to find the pieces of his soul.  
  
I sailed past Percy’s protesting secretary and threw open his office door to find him yelling at someone in the Floo.  
  
“…was I not informed, the Department Head, that one of my own offices has been dissolved? And don’t you dare presume I will believe it has anything to do with funding!”  
  
I blinked at my friend whose hair was disheveled, his robes undone and his eyes blazing with an internal blue fire. I had rarely ever seen Percy angry.  
  
The call ended with a ‘whoosh’ and Percy rose from his kneeling before the fireplace in his spacious office with enchanted windows unrealistically overlooking the Houses of Parliament. Turning to me, Percy feigned a smile.  
  
“I was wondering when you’d get here, Hermione.”  
  
I stood close to the door, my hands clenched at my sides.  
  
“Who is doing this, Percy?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.  
  
Percy ran a hand through his hair, and I knew then that he was truly frustrated. Only when he was he frustrated did he ever muss his crimson hair. Adjusting his rimless glasses on his long, straight nose, he fell back into his padded leather office chair behind his obsessively neat desk.  
  
“Not me. I have been superseded by a so-called special liaison to the Minister and about ten accountants telling me that our Department is taking funds from the MLE.”  
  
I was not convinced, taking a step across the office to Percy’s desk.  
  
“You don’t believe that?” I asked speculatively.  
  
Percy smirked. “It is complete shite, Hermione.”  
  
I snorted. Percy was not as prim and proper as many believed and as he propped his shoes on the edge of his desk, shrugging out of his robes, I could see the sweat stains under the arms of his button down dress shirt, and down the front. It seemed that Percy had worked himself into a fervour, on my behalf.  
  
“The men who came to your office, they were mine…but not under my orders.”  
  
I frowned. The scroll declaring that I was no longer part of the Department of Historical Records had not literally inferred Percy’s name.  
  
“Men in black…” I muttered.  
  
Percy did not understand the reference.  
  
“Did they have jurisdiction?” I asked finally.  
  
Percy sighed and adjusted his glasses again. “Yes, unfortunately. But what I do not understand is why… Why you and Hestia? I’ve been reading your files; there was nothing that I found sensitive.   
  
And excuse me for saying so, Hermione, but you and Hestia are harmless.”  
  
“You are excused,” I growled.  
  
Percy smiled and continued. “Unless there is something you have been withholding…”  
  
I growled a sigh and took another step forward. “You know me better than to suggest something as ludicrous as that…” I began, but stopped short as Percy raised his hands in surrender.  
  
I straightened and took a step back. “What do you suggest I do?”  
  
At my question, Percy’s face drained of mirth.  
  
“Lodge a formal complaint to the Minister’s office, and in the meantime, go for reassignment. My hands are tied, and even with my credentials, I am getting nowhere. Someone is using my own agents without my consent. Only someone higher in the Ministry can do that.”  
  
Percy’s words swept over me, and I felt my temper spike. I would have liked to vent to my friend and Head of Department, but something told me that I needed to worry about other matters first. My anger would have to wait.  
  
I walked from Percy’s office in a quiet calm.  
  
Something was happening, something was coming, and I did not want to be lost. I walked a little quicker down the corridor to the lift. I pitied Hestia in some ways, not knowing where she would be put next. As for me, I knew where I needed to go although I was not sure what I needed to do. There was something afoul in the Ministry, and in my lifetime, it would not be the first, or last time, I feared.  


* * *

  
  
  
My mother never cared much for Ron; that much had been clear the first time they met after the War. My mother was always kind to Ron, but behind it all, my mother complained that I should distance myself from him.  
  
She would never tell me why.  
  
In my dreams, my mother, or the woman who resembled my mother, was the guardian of the apple tree. Her words of warning about the poison apples reminded me of God telling Adam and Eve not to eat of the Tree of Knowledge.  
  
I, however, after my miscarriage, trusted my mother’s words.  
  
My mother had never known that I was pregnant, but if she had, she _would_ have certainly insinuated herself into my life with Ron. My mother understood that I was an excellent Auror, and she never complained about the danger of a career in law enforcement, all she complained about was Ron.  
  
“He may be Harry’s best friend, and you and he may have been through much together, but Hermione… He is not the one for you. And don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady.”  
  
I could smile at my mother’s words after all was said and done.  
  
My mother died not long after my miscarriage. An automobile collision killed her instantly, crushing her body between metal and plastic, perforating her internal organs and snapping her neck. My father had been driving, and it had been an accident. My father survived, paralyzed from the waist down, but still worked in Melbourne as a dentist, never marrying again, and never moving from the house they had called home in the years during and after the War.  
  
I rarely spoke to my father as time wore on. I do not resent him, sometimes things happen beyond our control, but I rarely speak to him because he cannot bear to see my face or hear my voice. In many ways, I resemble my mother.  
  
After so many years, I was still in shock. The death of a parent never seems real. Denial was something I clung to, until…  
  
In my dreams, I see my mother, Helen, and sometimes I want to change the dream and go to her, touch her. In my dreams, she is beautiful with honey-coloured eyes, hair and skin, wearing golden robes that make her glow almost too brightly to look at directly. She matched the colour of the apples on the great tree, and sometimes she plays a harp, an ancient lyre. I wonder sometimes if the woman is my mother, or some projection of her that haunts my dreams.  
  
She had told me once, after one of my eye-rolling moments about her complaints about Ron, that I someday would know what it was to be loved.   
  
“You will love him, he will love you, and together you will see each other as sacred beings. You will worship him, he will worship you, and between the two, you will have as much of God as you will ever want.”  
  
That was how my parents felt about each other, and I supposed, after my mother died, my father lost his God.  
  


* * *

  
  
As I Flooed back to Grimmauld Place, I ripped out of my robes as I stalked through the kitchen, ignoring the stares of Harry and Severus; I retreated to one of the guest rooms. I changed out of old carpetbag I carried and into a set of clothes I had not worn in years. Like my mother, I threw nothing away that could not be used again.  
  
My old Auror’s clothes fit like a second skin as they were meant to, dragon hide trousers and boots, and a long sleeved top made of Muggle materials, interwoven with metal fibre to repel projectiles, and softer dragon hide to repel spells. I stood before one of Walburga’s full-length mirrors and surveyed myself as I slipped on my chest holster. If it was not for the lines in the corners of my eyes, I would have been much like Severus—an image of the past.  
  
With a determined glare at myself, I tucked my wand into my holster and wiped a piece of honey brown hair from my eyes.  
  
I had a plan of what to do next, and Severus Snape was coming with me.

* * *

  
  
  
  
Severus blinked at me as I handed back his wand, and hesitated to take it from my hand. Both he and Harry had decided to gawk at me when I returned to the kitchen.  
  
“If you raise your wand against me, I swear you will regret it,” I warned as Severus slid his wand into his belt holster.  
  
“Slow down, Hermione, what is happening?” Harry asked, his large hand grasping my wrist as I pulled my hand away from Severus.  
  
I did not bother to sit next to Harry, but leaned into the back of the kitchen chair, regarding Severus’ pale face as I spoke.  
  
“My office has been dissolved, all my work has been seized, I have been charged to be reassigned, and I got no answers as to why.”  
  
Harry frowned. “Not from Percy?”  
  
“Percy? Percy Weasley?” Severus asked, his back straightening, his eyes flashing.  
  
“One and the same. Why? Does that mean something to you?” I asked brusquely.  
  
Severus shook his head, several strands of dark hair falling from the frayed ribbon holding the thick, greasy hair from his pointed face. “Not really. It just surprises me that he is not closer to the Minister.”  
  
I smirked. “Hopkirk is Minister now, Fudge has long been returned to the annals of ‘bad management.’”  
  
Surprisingly, Severus smirked.  
  
“And why are you dressed like that? Are you rejoining the Aurors?” Harry asked roughly, finally releasing my wrist.  
  
I glanced at my old friend. “Never.”  
  
Harry sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, ruffling his hair in the process. “You know, luv, I am not the fastest out of the gates, so if you’ll care to explain…”  
  
“Yes, Ms. Granger, do explain.”  
  
I pursed my lips.  
  
“If what Severus says is true, and that he is our first contact to whatever the Knights of Walpurgis want to warn us of…we are going to have to go rogue.”  
  
Harry’s face drained of blood, but I was gauging Severus’ reaction, to which there was none.  
  
“I…” Harry began, but trailed, rubbing his face more furiously. Severus was watching for Harry to scratch at the scar, I knew, but Harry’s scar had been dead for thirteen years. “I have a family, Hermione, for Merlin’s sake. I cannot…”  
  
I sighed. “Then I will. I may not be an Auror any longer, but I have credentials, contacts, and most importantly, I have information.  
  
Something is wrong, Harry. If the fact that Severus Snape, of all people, is sitting in your kitchen is not an indication…”  
  
Harry groaned. “You haven’t the jurisdiction, and by merely speaking to you or harbouring you, I could lose my job. Do not be talking of going ‘rogue’ when you cannot see the implications!  
  
But…” Harry trailed before meeting my eyes again. “It is you, Hermione. You!”  
  
I frowned. “Me, what? My fault? Fault for what?” I breathed, trying not to scream.  
  
Harry shook his head. He was ignoring his gut feeling that I was right—something was wrong with our world, he could feel the dread I was feeling, the dread so many of us had been feeling for years after the War. Something was wrong. Darkness was encroaching.  
  
“It is your turn to do what you must, damn the world, and change it.”  
  
I gaped at Harry. Eloquence was rare from him, and in his eloquence, I felt my heart soften just a bit. Slowly, I composed myself internally and took a breath.  
  
“I will need a place to land, Harry,” I started softly. “Can I count on you for that?”  
  
Harry nodded mutely.  
  
“Talk to Kreacher about resetting the wards on the house. You might want to keep Jaime and Albus at the Burrow with Ginny.”  
  
Harry nodded again.  
  
“Ask Walburga about setting a Fidelus or renewing the old wards Orion Black set on the house.”  
  
Harry blinked. “Ask Walburga?”  
  
I wanted to laugh, but even Severus was gazing at me, shocked.  
  
“Quote the Black family motto and she’ll talk coherently, and if it is about the ‘house of her fathers,’ she won’t shut up.”  
  
Harry nodded again, slower.  
  
“I am going back to my poor excuse for a flat in Sheffield, and then to Hogwarts, and Severus is going with me.”  
  
Severus blinked and perched his chin on his folded hands. “And why would I do that?”  
  
I said nothing, but glanced to Harry again for confirmation that he understood. Harry sighed. “Ginny is not going to like this.”  
  
I wanted to say that I knew she would not, but Ginny could never pass up an adventure, no matter how small. I had a feeling that this particular adventure was going to be just as big as thirteen years ago.  


* * *

  
  
  
I hated Sheffield, but it was a perfect place to hide oneself, in my opinion. The blocks and blocks of old slum served as perfect cover. The city had yet to tear the old slum down, and that was where I lived, in an old blockhouse on the top floor. The old crone that rented out the place often forgot she had tenants and many times I had to force rent money into her mail slot even though she stood on the other side of the door thinking me to be a burglar.  
  
Severus had held to my arm as we Apparated into an alley down the empty street, his eyes taking in the yellow-grey sky overhead and the smokestacks in the distance. He said nothing as I pulled my arm from his grasp.  
  
“You should pull your cowl up,” I said softly, motioning to his cloak.  
  
Severus complied as his dark eyes found my face. Within moments we were scaling the rubbish-strewn stairwell to the fifth floor, the top floor, and to the metal door of my one room apartment, aptly number 508 ½.  
  
Casting an unlocking Charm discreetly on the door, I let Severus inside.  
  
The concrete walls were bare of any decoration, and the curtains over the one window overlooking an empty lot, were open. Books lined the walls, stacked on top one another halfway to the ceiling. The lavatory was off the entryway and consisted of a toilet that worked when it did not rain and a shower that was clean as I could manage with simple household Charms. A clean mattress lay in one corner, a writing desk adjacent, and upon the top of the desk, just where I had left it, my Codex.  
  
I moved across the room and snatched the book up, flipping the pages open to the last words that had been magically copied in my hand to the page.  
  
Notes on Walburga Black’s portrait and the state of the painting were last. Luckily, I had not written any more information about Walburga Black’s portrait, mentally composing my notes before the seizure of everything in my office.  
  
With a sigh, I turned from my desk and looked about my insignificant apartment, trying to think of anything else I might need. Sadly, my tiny flat had little in it that would tell anyone that I lived there. No pictures, no mementos, nothing that would indicate that Hermione Granger lived in that room…  
  
Drawing my wand, I shrunk the Codex and slipped it into my pants pocket and turned to Severus. He was standing just in the entryway, his onyx eyes scanning the room slowly.  
  
“Pathetic, isn’t it?”  
  
Severus’ eyes snapped to mine and for a moment, I saw a strange glow there. He said nothing, appearing out of place and out of sorts.  
  
“What’s wrong?” I asked finally.  
  
Severus hesitated, his eyes falling to his boots.  
  
“I grew up near here.”  
  
I cocked my head. I had almost forgotten that little factoid.  
  
“Spinner’s End?”  
  
Severus nodded.  
  
“That whole section of the old slums was demolished five years ago.”  
  
There was no reaction, and I wondered why he had bothered to bring it up.  
  
I then realized that as I gazed at Severus Snape, a vision in black, that he, probably for the first time in his life had no place to call home. I knew about Spinner’s End because Harry and I had been the first Aurors to investigate the little house after the War. Between Severus’ supposed death and the afternoon Harry and I entered the parlour, someone had ransacked the house, vandals had set fires in the dilapidated couch, and the upstairs had been used for neighborhood squatters as shelter. The magic that had protected the house had failed at some point.  
  
Severus Snape was a man totally out of place.  
  
I could sympathise.  
  
The room I stood in was not my home, and neither was any other place I had been since the end of the War.  
  
“That book?” Severus asked softly.  
  
I touched my pants pocket as I slid my wand back into my holster.  
  
“Back up for what was taken. Every document I submitted to the Department of Intelligence.”  
  
Severus smirked. “You did not trust them.”  
  
I moved toward the door, but paused before Severus, gazing up into his pale face. “Not exactly. I also wanted my own copies to study later. Of course, if anyone knew about this book, I could be fined, or imprisoned.  
  
And given what happened this morning, I’m sure it would be the latter option.”

* * *

  
  
  
There were ways in an out of Hogwarts that had remained a secret even after the War. However, as I walked with Severus Snape close behind me toward the Headmistress’ office, we had entered through the front doors.  
  
After leaving Sheffield, it seemed that Severus was suddenly awake. He did not need to hold my arm to Apparate with me to Hogsmeade, just outside the gates of the castle. However, as he stared at the castle, I realized that in his mind he had left Hogwarts so long ago.   
  
“Give me a moment,” he whispered, not taking his eyes off the battlements and the Astronomy Tower.  
  
I stepped away from him toward the gate. I was hesitant to leave him out of my sight, but I turned away, gazing at the castle myself.  
  
After the War, much had been done to restore Hogwarts, and to me, I saw the school I had beheld in such wonder in my First Year. Minerva had done much to erase the terrible Battle on the grounds and in the corridors. After thirteen years, the only thing that had changed was the plaque set into the stonewall near the front doors—a commemoration with the name of Severus Snape still emblazoned into the silver.  
  
“Let’s go.”  
  
Severus had stepped near without my notice, and out of instinct, I nearly hexed him. However, as I looked up at him, I did not see Severus Snape, but a strange pale man who looked like a close relation to Draco Malfoy.  
  
“I know; you don’t have to say…” he muttered darkly as he walked ahead of me two paces.  
  
I quickly caught up.  
  
Glamours, intricate, professional glamours—I was impressed.  
  
Blond hair replaced black, and much of his other features were fashioned to resemble a Malfoy, down to the piercing grey eyes. Only the voice was the same.  
  
Moments later, we stood just outside the Headmistress’ door. Severus had begun to question the ease of our movement in the castle, but I did not have the time to explain that I had the authority as a Ministry official to come and go as I pleased. Of course, it did not hurt that I had developed a type of friendship with Minerva through the years and that half the teaching staff were once Severus’ pupils.  
  
“I had the strangest news, Hermione,” Minerva said, standing sharply from behind her desk.  
  
Behind me, Severus was surveying the office, and I knew he was noting the fact that almost nothing had changed since he had been Headmaster. He, of course, had not changed anything from the time Albus had the office.  
  
“Phineas told me you were coming by way of Walburga Black!”  
  
Severus closed the door behind us before, and together, we advanced toward the Headmistress. I glanced at the portraits out of the corner of my eyes and set my face. I knew I would have to have a word with Phineas.  
  
“I’m sorry for the abrupt visit, Minerva, but I would like a favour.”  
  
Minerva’s eyes flashed to Severus and back to me.  
  
“Of course?”  
  
I wriggled my fingers out of nervousness. Minerva was as perceptive as Albus, but not as nearly as kind when suspicious.  
  
“I need to speak to Albus, in private.”  
  
Minerva, predictably, frowned.  
  
“What is going on, Hermione? Why are you wearing those clothes? And who is this man?”  
  
Minvera’s Scottish burr made me shudder, and surprisingly, Severus mimicked my motion. I knew, at some point, I would have to be honest, but at that moment, I knew there was little I could tell my old Head of House. I barely knew the truth. All the same, I would answer what I could.  
  
“This gentleman is part of the Department of Intelligence, and he is assisting me in gathering some information on Riddle’s activities during the formation of the Death Eaters. Albus’ input would be very helpful…”  
  
Minerva’s keen eye pierced me, and I knew, that she knew, I was lying through my teeth. Minerva pulled her glasses from end of her nose and let them hang by the chain about her neck upon her bosom.  
  
“Hermione Granger…” she began angrily, but shaking her head, thought better of her original thought and moved around the desk to approach me.  
  
Severus recoiled, causing Minerva to pause for a moment before moving to grasp my left and lean in close.  
  
“I trust…I sincerely trust that whatever this is, you will tell me if I should need to fortify the wards on the castle and notify the staff,” Minerva whispered, her old hand crushing my shoulder with a strength that reminded me that Minerva McGonagall was no old fool like Albus had been.  
  
I tried to smile. “Of course, Minerva. We should only be a few moments.”  
  
Minerva nodded sharply before glancing to Severus and making her way to the door of the office.  
  
I let out a low moan when I knew Minerva was safely out of earshot. If I were not careful, I would no longer have Minerva’s confidence, and that confidence was something I might need soon.  
  
“Phineas,” I sighed, turning toward the portrait of one of the many Black ancestors.  
  
“Granger, until you are Headmistress of this school, you are to call me Professor Black!” Phineas Nigellus bit out.  
  
The other portraits of more hospitable Headmasters protested. Phineas Nigellus, despite being a taciturn old bastard, in all actuality, liked me.  
  
“Then I shall call you Phineas,” Severus announced, dispelling his glamours with his long dark wand.  
  
The portraits began clamour, and with a grimace, I cast a Charm I hated to use—a Charm to paralyze the portraits, rendering them temporarily inert and unaware of the world outside their frames. Only Phineas Nigellus remained active. Often times, when I wanted a private conversation with a portrait, I would cast a modified Muffliato Charm upon the portrait.  
  
“Snape. Walburga did not mention you.”  
  
“And how is it that you can speak to Walburga?” I asked angrily, slipping my wand back into my holster.  
  
The dark haired man leaned forward in his chair, but did not speak to me, but to Severus.  
  
“That Potter boy moved me out of the bedrooms in Grimmauld place and put me in a cupboard in the cellar. After my usefulness was over, it seems I have been relegated to listen to Walburga’s incessant moaning for all eternity.   
  
Potter remembered where he put me when he was talking to Walburga and set me out to consult me about Grimmauld Place. After a while, Walburga’s mind likes to wander…”  
  
I sighed. Of all the portraits, it was not Walburga Black who was the most tiring, it was Phineas Nigellus Black.  
  
“Enough of this. Black, go back to Grimmauld Place and tell Harry…”  
  
“I will tell him not to be so daft, yes, Miss Granger…” Phineas trailed.  
  
I glanced to Severus.  
  
“We should hurry,” he murmured.  
  
I agreed, however, I was hesitant to speak to Albus when I knew what the Headmaster’s reaction to Severus might be.  


* * *

  
  
  
After the Battle of Hogwarts, I did think about Severus Snape often. When all the details of the War had been sorted through, I could only feel a greater respect for my former Potions Master.   
  
Of course, the man was insulting, reticent, and generally unpleasant, but he was brilliant—dangerously so as evident with his old Potions book Harry had used in Sixth Year.  
  
I thought about him often when dealing with captured Death Eaters, wondering if they knew how insignificant they were to Severus Snape. I thought about Severus Snape when my superiors vented their own shortcomings on me. How would Severus Snape handle such asinine people?  
  
There was much of Severus Snape’s character I adopted while working as an Auror. I was hardened by the War, I was sharp witted, sharp tongued, and sharp eyed. I honed my mind and body, learning Occlumency and Legilimency to a level that would allow me to see inside and beyond the criminals I interrogated. I kept my mind fresh with studies outside of working with the MLE, with every intention of perhaps attaining a Master’s level in Potions if I tired of the MLE. Strangely, that contingency never played out.  
  
I respected Severus Snape in many ways, and I knew, realistically, that I truly did not know the man at all.  
  
Therefore, when Severus stood before Albus’ portrait, it shocked me to see that Severus had his wand tip pointed at the painted surface, his pale and unattractive face twisted with hate. I did not move, however, but watched from my place near Severus’ back, one hand moving to my holster, the other to touch Severus’ back.  
  
“I do not remember everything about my miserable life, old man, but I know and remember enough to hate you,” Severus snarled.  
  
When I touched Severus’ back, the coiled muscles ready to spring to cast a spell, he seemed to relax.  
  
“But this is not why we are here…” Severus trailed, taking a breath, his voice carrying his weariness.  
  
I stepped to Severus’ right side, my hand sliding over his shoulder blades as he lowered his wand and glanced to me, his eyes still glittering black anger.  
  
Albus Dumbledore’s portrait, on the other hand, was frightened.  
  
“You are…” Albus began, but trailed as Severus’ eyes rose again.  
  
“Alive? Yes. You are not the first to be surprised, and I dare say, you won’t be the last.”  
  
“But it makes perfect sense. There was no portrait of you, Severus, and no body, I had been told.”  
  
I glanced to Severus. It did make sense. No matter how long the tenure of the office of Headmaster, when the Headmaster died, a portrait appeared in the Head’s office—always. Every portrait I had interviewed corroborated this bit of information. The magic behind such an appearance of a Head’s was unknown. I added to my ever-growing list of ‘the Magical Unexplained.’  
  
“Please don’t tell me that you are happy to see me alive, Albus. I have only ever been a sacrificial lamb to you.   
  
And that is not what we want to speak to you about.”  
  
I blinked. Severus had said ‘we.’  
  
It was then Albus’ attention fell upon me. I glared back at the old man, a man whom in my adult years I had learned to dislike as much as Tom Riddle.  
  
“The Knights of Walpurgis,” I said simply.  
  
Albus’ blue painted eyes could only blink at me.   
  
“A myth. Tom Riddle tried to appropriate the name early on before the Death Eaters…”  
  
Severus sighed. “Then you know nothing about the Knights?”  
  
Albus’ eyes moved toward the corner of his near life-sized portrait. I assumed, not knowing the mechanics of how a Head’s portrait was manufactured, that Albus’ portrait was larger than most because in life, Albus Dumbledore had seemed ‘larger than life.’  
  
“We do not have the time to dance around vagaries or sift through riddles, Albus,” I whispered with imbued anger. I was angry because Severus angry and I did not know why that was…  
  
“A myth, they were believed to be a myth, Miss Granger. However, in every myth there is a strain of truth. Walpurgis, Beltane, all particular moments in time when the boundaries between this world and another are the thinnest. Walpurgis is a commemoration of the Norse god Odin’s death to retrieve the knowledge of the runes…”  
  
“Yes, we know this, Albus, every apt pupil in this school knows this. What is needed is something we do not already know,” Severus growled.  
  
I had half a mind to smirk, but did not. Severus was correct, though, we—I needed to know something more.  
  
Albus sighed. “I do know that the Knights of Walpurgis were once called the ‘Order of Merlin.’ Of course, the Ministry adopted that convention for their purposes.  
  
Nicholas Flamel once told me that the Order of Merlin was the original name of the Knights, which is, of course, a pun. The Order of Merlin was said to be an ancient group of witches and wizards, always eight in number, to act as ‘watchtowers’ of an age. Sadly, that is all I know. The Order of Merlin, the Knights of Walpurgis, and its possible other incarnations is a mystery that many have debated from time immemorial.  
  
And now my logical question to you, Severus, Miss Granger, what is it that has brought you here to ask me about them?”  
  
I glanced at Severus.  
  
“The Knights of Walpurgis, it seems, is not a myth, and by them, we—Miss Granger, Harry Potter, and myself—have been informed that there is a Dark Wizard or Witch on the rise.”  
  
Severus’ voice had calmed considerably, but still, as I stood near his right side, I could feel that the calm was temporary. Severus had affectively put a reign on his anger in lieu of acquiring information from the former Headmaster.  
  
Albus ran his fingers through his beard in thought.  
  
“There have been two Dark Wizards in my own lifetime, and that was two too many,” Albus mused to himself.  
  
Severus was not amused. I sighed, of all the wizards in the world, living, or dead, I had hoped that Albus Dumbledore would be more informative.  
  
“You might speak with Horace.”  
  
I blinked.  
  
Slughorn? I glanced again to Severus who nodded.  
  
“Anything obscure, unusual, or secretive, Horace was always the one to know a bit more than I. He should be in the dungeons, and if not there, try the Hog’s Head.”

 

 


	4. IV

**IV**  
  
Severus Snape had large hands, a feature I noticed in my sixth year when he was teaching my class how to cast silently in DADA. Severus had been a strict Potions professor, but a severe Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.  
  
I had noticed his hands many times in the years previous, but it was not until he grasped my hand one day to correct the motion of my wand movement that I became aware of the size of his hands. His hand had totally enveloped my own. Granted, that had been years ago, but the size of my hands had little changed.  
  
His fingers were long and tapered, his palm wide and rough, his nails were short and shone when the light caught them just right. They were hands of a man who worked, who was strong, and for Severus Snape, a man whose innate magic would easily work through those hands without the aid of wand.  
  
Horace Slughorn was not in the school, and it seemed as Severus wandlessly unlocked the front door to Aberforth Dumbledore’s shabby pub, Horace Slughorn was not drinking his usual pint of bitters there either.  
  
Severus stepped inside the dark pub while I remained outside the door, hoping that no one would happen across us breaking and entering into the establishment.  
  
“I  _would_  say that there hasn’t been anyone in for weeks, but the Hog’s Head was always dusty and dank,” Severus muttered.  
  
“The upper rooms?” I asked from the door, daring to peek inside.  
  
“It would stand to reason that if the door is locked and Aberforth is not here that the rooms were not let.”  
  
I sighed as I watched Severus cast a revealing Charm for any human life. It was clear that there was none.  
  
“I don’t suppose he went on vacation…” I trailed quietly.  
  
The light outside was failing, and it seemed that Severus and I had come to a dead end.  
  
I was nowhere nearer to learning anything about the Knights of Walpurgis, or learning where Severus Snape had been in the thirteen years since his supposed death.  
  
The only somewhat fruitful moment of the day had been the retrieval of my Codex, and the news that the Knights may have once been called the Order of Merlin. It was something, but not as much as I would have liked to have learned.  
  
Severus had reapplied his glamours as soon as we stepped out of the Head’s office. The Charm I had cast on the portraits would wear off before the sunset, and it would not do to have the other Headmasters and Headmistresses learn that Severus Snape was still alive. Phineas was the exception, however.  
  
Relocking the door, a glamoured Severus turned to me, as if expecting that I would have a further course of action. I did not.  
  
I was bordering on exhaustion. It had been a stressful day, in my mind. Ever since walking away from the MLE, my life had been fairly stress-free, and the work hours shorter.  
  
However, losing my job, my work, making the dangerous decision to go on as a rogue Auror, it was beginning to drain me. I knew I was out of shape, but I had given myself more credit than to begin losing my edge before I had satisfied my curiosity for one day.  
  
“Does Rosemerta still manage the Three Broomsticks?” Severus asked.  
  
I perked up, following his line of thought. If Aberforth were gone, along with his limited clientele, Rosmerta would know.  
  
The pub was almost empty by the time Severus and I, sat down in a booth close to the door.  
  
“Might as well have dinner,” I muttered too low for Severus to hear as Rosmerta came to the table.  
  
“Talking to the portraits again, Hermione?” Rosmerta said by way of greeting. She set down a pitcher of mulled mead between Severus and I, knowing that it was what I drank when I came into the pub.  
  
“Something like that,” I answered.  
  
“What can I get you two?” Rosmerta asked out of habit, her pretty face smiling.  
  
I ordered the special, the corn beef and cabbage with boiled potatoes. Severus muttered he would like the same. Rosmerta gave pause at the sound of Severus’ voice, but said nothing.  
  
“Oh, and Rosmerta?” I asked as she began to walk away with our orders. Rosmerta turned and smiled again. “I was wondering, have you seen Professor Slughorn lately?”  
  
Rosmerta chuckled. “He goes to Old Abe’s, but you know, Old Abe closed the Hogs Head over a week ago…”  
  
I glanced to Severus. “Do you know why?”  
  
“Oh, sometimes Old Abe goes off, Dorset or Somerset, I think. But you know, some bloke was in here yesterday asking me the same thing?”  
  
I bit my lip, “Strange. About Professor Slughorn too?”  
  
Rosmerta nodded. “Never seen the bloke before in my life…” Her eyes moved to Severus who was starting pointedly at the pitcher of mead.  
  
“Oh?” I said, hoping that Rosmerta would continue.  
  
“He was a short fellow, balding. He had a funny accent and he had Ministry robes, I thought it was funny…seeing as I did not know him.”  
  
Rosmerta shrugged and turned to move to the counter, apparently losing interest. I sighed and began pouring mead, passing a pint glass to Severus who did not seem to notice the drink.  
  
We did not speak, and I realized Severus was probably concerned that Rosmerta had recognized his voice. I, on the other hand, was trying to understand Rosmerta’s words.   
  
Aberforth Dumbledore closing his pub to go to Dorset or Somerset? It was strange. It was also strange that no one seemed to know where Horace Slughorn had gone. And it was disconcerting to hear that someone, a short balding man in Ministry robes had been asking about Aberforth and Horace the day before.  
  
When Rosmerta brought our food, Severus began eating slowly while I started at my full plate.  
  
Two men suddenly gone did not bode well to me. I linked Horace and Aberforth together though I knew that there was probably no connection. It had been Albus’ words that had formed the connection in my mind. I started eating, mechanically.  
  
I wanted to voice my thoughts to Severus, but did not. Even if I cast a Muffliato Charm, I still would not feel safe. Someone in the Ministry or in Ministry robes had come asking my questions.  
  
I wondered if my assumption about someone being a step ahead were correct.  


* * *

  
  
  
I was exhausted, but still I sat in the kitchen of Grimmauld place with Harry next to me and Severus across the table. It was late, but still I needed to speak my thoughts aloud.  
  
“Would it be stretch to think that maybe Slughorn might be part of the Knights of Walpurgis?” Harry said finally after I told him what little Severus and I learned.  
  
Severus sighed, but I blinked slowly at Harry.  
  
“It is possible, but we don’t have proof,” I said softly. I turned my heavy lidded eyes to Severus who leaned back in his chair.  
  
Could it have been Horace who retrieved Severus from the Shrieking Shack? I shook my head, remembering that Horace had stayed at Hogwarts to keep the students safely in their dormitories. I remembered that Horace had a time keeping the Slytherins in their House.  
  
“What about Aberforth?” Harry then asked.  
  
Again, I shook my head. “Rosmerta mentioned Somerset…Dorset…”  
  
“I seem to recall that he would go off at times, to  _Somerset_ ,” Severus added, speaking for the first time since the Three Broomsticks. “It was a trivial matter, but going to Somerset, I wonder…”  
  
Severus met my eyes. Even with my mind begging for sleep, I saw something in his bottomless eyes. There was a spark of a thought, but it was quickly extinguished.  
  
“Somerset could be a lead,” Harry suggested. “As for Slughorn…”  
  
I moved my attention to Harry begrudgingly; I wanted to look longer into Severus’ eyes for another spark.  
  
“I could make some inquiries. It is odd that he would leave Hogwarts during term.”  
  
It  _was_  odd.   
  
“Tomorrow,” Severus said softly, starting to rise from the table. “I assume that I can still use Black’s room?”  
  
Harry nodded. I knew that he would go to the Burrow, to his family. I also knew that I would have to make other arrangements in the morning. I added that thought to the top of the list of things to consider.  
  
Severus left the kitchen, leaving Harry and I alone. We did not speak, and my eyes grew heavier and heavier.  
  
“Off to bed with you,” Harry whispered near my ear and automatically I jerked to my feet, knocking the chair to the floor.  
  
Harry’s eyes widened at my reaction and then he chuckled. He moved to pick up my chair and then took my hand. “It’s still there,” he laughed as he led me toward the door.  
  
“What is?” I mumbled.  
  
“The instinct to fight. After six years, you haven’t lost it.”  
  
The still conscious part of my mind wanted me to laugh, but I did not. I was too focused trying to walk up the stairs.  
  
Harry put me to bed in his bed, pulling my boots off and dropping them next to the bed. He smiled down at me in the dark, only a streetlight outside the window casting any light into the room.  
  
“I’ve started resetting the wards,” he said and I nodded dumbly. “Tomorrow night I should have it done. I have to go back to work day after tomorrow.” Again, I nodded, but eyes closing. “’night, ‘mione.”  
  
I heard no more and was lost on the current of sleep that took me far away from Harry and Grimmauld Place.  


* * *

  
  
  
I awoke screaming.   
  
I did not remember dreaming, as I sat up in bed, sweat dampening my brow, my chest rising and falling as I gasped for breath. The old phantom pains in my womb lingered, but as I moved to grasp my middle, the bedroom door banged open. I screamed again at the abrupt sound and searched for my wand, which was not in its holster across my chest.  
  
Heavy footfalls sounded and suddenly I was face to face with the wide, wild black eyes of Severus Snape. He held my upper arms in a bruising grip, the length of his wand pressing into the fleshy part of the back of my left arm.  
  
His onyx eyes studied my face, then the rest of me as if to ascertain any injury. By the darkness and the quality of dim light coming in through the window to my right, I knew it was early morning.  
  
“Miss Granger?”  
  
I blinked at Severus.  
  
“Wha-what are you doing?” I asked, confused.  
  
“You were screaming, I thought…” he trailed, his voice angry, his eyes narrowing from fear to scrutiny.  
  
I struggled out of Severus’ grip and grabbed my wand, which I realized, Harry had pulled from my holster to set on the bedside table. I slid the Vinewood back into its place and pulled my legs from under the light blanket Harry had placed over me. I moved to rise, but a large hand wrapping around my wrist pulled me down again.  
  
“I’m fine,” I ground out between my teeth, not looking at Severus.  
  
“What did you dream?” he asked his voice steady.  
  
I did not answer, my toes cold against the floor. Severus was sitting on the edge of the bed, his bare feet near mine.  
  
“What did you dream?” he asked, more insistently.  
  
“I don’t remember,” I growled, turning my face to him.  
  
He released my wrist, and in the dim morning light, I could see the spots of colour appear high on his pale cheeks. Severus rose without another word and walked from the room, and as he walked, I realised that his hair was tangled in the back, and that my screams must have roused him from sleep.  
  
I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling suddenly guilty. He had forgone his wand to kick open the locked bedroom door. I stared at the broken latch and felt an empty sensation grow in my stomach. He had thought I was in danger.  
  
I shook my head. It was a natural reaction. Woman in possible danger, locked door, illogical thoughts upon being roused so violently… I silently cast a repairing Charm on the latch, feeling guiltier that I had been sleeping in Harry and Ginny’s bed.  
  
Glancing to the bedside table to the old Muggle alarm clock, I read that it was almost five in the morning. I was too rattled to sleep, and I rose to face another day.  


* * *

  
  
  
“Slughorn has been missing from Hogwarts for two weeks,” Harry explained as Severus finished breakfast.  
  
It was nine in the morning and I had been up for four hours. Harry had returned to Grimmauld Place from the Burrow. At the Burrow, he called Hogwarts.  
  
“Neville has been covering his classes. He says that Slughorn left a note with a student during his last class two weeks ago, saying that he had to go away ‘on business.’ McGonagall has not alerted the authorities, and has not made a move to replace him.”  
  
I was sitting at the far end of the kitchen table, my Codex open before, a cup of tea poised in my hand. Severus had arisen late; surely to replace his lost hours after the rude awakening I had given him. When he had entered the kitchen at eight, he did not speak to me, but he brooded as Kreacher began preparing breakfast. It was clear that Kreacher preferred Severus to me; I had to prepare my own breakfast.  
  
“Neville Longbottom is teaching Potions,” Severus stated, his lips curling into a snarl.  
  
It seemed that no matter how much Severus had forgotten, he remembered Neville.  
  
“He had a Masters level in Potions, but he teaches Herbology,” Harry said as if to answer a question Severus had not asked.   
  
I smirked, I would never forget how much Neville had feared Severus, or the Boggart of Severus Neville had produced in Third Year.  
  
“So, Aberforth and Horace are suddenly gone,” Harry mused to himself, leaning back in his chair across the table from Severus. “You appear here, suddenly alive, Hermione’s office is dissolved, a strange man appears just before you two, asking questions about two absent wizards, and overshadowing it all is the Knights of Walpurgis.”  
  
I said nothing, in fact, I had said little since Harry returned to Grimmauld Place. Since coming down to the kitchen, I had been reading my notes in the Codex, trying in vain to piece some truth together. I kept rereading my notes regarding Abraxas Malfoy, thinking that I should somehow speak to the portrait again, but not knowing how I would be able to enter Malfoy Manor without my credentials as part of the DHR.  
  
I flipped back to my interview with Arcturus Black. I knew I could easily slip back into the Lestrange House, it was sealed by the Ministry, but surely if I acted quickly, the wards would still recognize me and let me inside.  
  
I rose from the table, shutting my book and tucking it under my arm. The Lestrange House was just in Lambeth, incidentally not far from the orphanage that had housed Tom Riddle as a child. I moved to the kitchen door, ready to leave when Severus’ voice stopped me.  
  
“If you plan on acting upon some idea, Miss Granger, I would like to accompany you.”  
  
I turned from the door, realizing that both Severus and Harry were regarding me with disdain.  
  
“It would be better if you stayed,  _sir_. Glamours aside, you could be recognized,” I said icily, turning back to the door.  
  
The scrape of a chair stopped me again.  
  
“I have as much to gain by discovering all I can about the Knights of Walpurgis,  _Miss_  Granger. I am just as astounded as you and Potter are over the fact that I am standing here, alive.”  
  
His voice dripped with venom, and a part of me responded to that voice. It was so familiar, and despite the venom, so comforting. I turned back to the kitchen again, seeing Harry’s confusion, and ignoring it. Severus stood behind the table, dressed in the same strange clothing as when he arrived. Even his cloak was lying over the back of the chair next to him, and his hand moved to retrieve it.  
  
“Where are you going, Hermione?” Harry asked, his eyes glittering with curiosity.  
  
“The Lestranges.”  
  
Harry’s brow furrowed. “Why?”  
  
I sighed. “If I tell you, I involve you, Harry. Do you understand?”  
  
Harry’s emerald eyes widened for a moment and then he nodded. “I don’t want to know.”  
  
I breathed a sigh and tried to smile. Harry’s words were light, and it reminded me of the many times at school when we bent or broke the rules. To be honest, I wanted to tell Harry everything, but knew that if I did, he would lose his position in the MLE.   
  
“Come along then, we’re Apparating,” I muttered to Severus.  
  
Severus had already donned his cloak, pulling up the cowl.  
  
“Breaking and entering, that is surely not all the laws you are going to break is it?” Severus asked when we stood in Grimmauld Square.  
  
I said nothing, glancing to the overcast sky, feeling that it would begin raining at any moment. I had donned my old traveling cloak that still had old Curse burns and spatters of blood engrained in the worn black leather.  
  
Feeling safe enough to Apparate without Muggle notice, I reached out a hand to Severus who blinked at it and then at my face.  
  
“I remember where the Lestranges lived, Miss Granger,” Severus breathed.  
  
I could see his hands twitching under his cloak, and I wondered if he were truly upset with me for my reaction to him entering the bedroom earlier in the morning. I shrugged, and in a flash and soft crack, I stood on the curb of a dark street just at the gate to an overgrown lot.  
  
To Muggles, the lot was empty, but when one squeezed through the broken gate, a large house rose into view. The Lestrange House was not in the least bit welcoming, and I had always wondered what it had looked like when the Lestranges did live inside. The exterior was wooden, but years of neglect had made the paint peel off the front of the two-story house making the wooden façade a dull grey. The large casement windows were either cracked or broken out completely, and the small lawn was overgrown with weeds and littered with leaves.  
  
I moved up the short walk to the front door, pausing just on the stoop as Severus moved to stand behind me. A faded printed notice adorned what had once been an elegant walnut door with a bronze knocker.  
  
‘Warning,’ it read, ‘this property is under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Magic. Trespassers will be prosecuted. Entry must be approved by the Department of Intelligence.’  
  
I scowled at the notice and drew my wand. I could feel Severus watching me as I waved my wand over the door in an intricate pattern, dismantling the wards I could feel through my magic protecting the door. When the door popped over, the wood having swollen and shrunk through the years creaking mournfully, I swept inside.  
  
Severus did not falter in following me up a rickety staircase into the bedrooms on the second floor. At its height, I was certain that the Lestrange House was an example of Urban Pure-blood décor, but again, years of neglect had ruined the walnut paneled walls, turned the parquet flooring black, and the broken windows had let the elements inside. The Lestrange House reeked of rot and death, and I wondered how many Muggles had been tortured inside the house.  
  
I walked quickly into the master bedroom, my eyes seeing that since my last visit the great four-poster bed had finally collapsed, the wood rotten, the hangings in disgusting green tatters. Upon the moldy panel wall, across from the cracked windows, was a small gilt frame and a confused face staring back at me.  
  
“Miss Granger?”  
  
Severus stood near the door, and I wonder why he had not followed me into the room. It seemed that Severus shadowed my every step until then.  
  
Arcturus Black, son of Phineas Nigellus and Ursula Flint, husband of Lysandra Yaxley, father three daughters, one disowned, was an older man, but it was clear that if Sirius Black the younger had lived into old age, he would resemble his uncle. In the portrait, Arcturus was dressed in regal black robes, his long silver hair combed neatly to fall over his left shoulder. His fathomless grey eyes were staring back at me, in shock.  
  
“I apologize for the abrupt entrance, Mr. Black, and I apologize for this…”  
  
I moved to the portrait and grasping the frame heard Arcturus gasp as I pulled his portrait down from the wall. Luckily, there had been no sticking Charms or any enchantments on the frame and soon, Arcturus was tucked under my arm, his painted face and hands pressed against the side of the frame as if to keep from falling out.  
  
“Blasted woman, where are you taking me?” Arcturus protested.  
  
“I’ll explain later, Mr. Black, now do keep quiet,” I snarled as I stalked past an incredulous Severus.  
  
“What are you doing, Miss Granger?” Severus hissed as I glided down the stairs to the front door.  
  
I paused before the front door, knowing that as soon as I passed with the portrait, the Ministry would be notified. The wards alerting the Ministry of theft could not be dismantle as easily as the other wards protecting the door.  
  
“I am condemning myself to imprisonment,” I whispered.  
  
I knew I should not hesitate, but I did. So far, the only crimes I had committed were concealing and extorting so-called sensitive information from my now dissolved department, and entering a Ministry seized property without proper authorization. That alone would cost me possibly five years in Azkaban, but removing Ministry property—twenty years.  
  
Arcturus Black had been one to mention the Knights of Walpurgis, and I had to admit that I was surprised that the portrait was still in the Lestrange House. Perhaps I was catching up to whomever was a step ahead of me.  
  
I stepped through the open door, and immediately began to run. I did not bother to see if Severus was behind me, but when I leapt through the broken gate, I head his boot falls behind me.  
  
“Grimmauld Place,” I growled, and I Apparated, Severus right behind me.  


* * *

  
  
  
Severus was still on my heels as moved down the narrow corridor to the kitchen, but as I approached the stairs down, I stopped abruptly. Severus fell against me and made a noise to speak. I hissed for silence, as there was a rattle in the kitchen and the scrapping of wood against the stone floor.  
  
I drew my wand and finally glanced back to Severus. Severus nodded, producing his wand as well.  
  
The sounds were clear; it was the sound of a struggle.  
  
As I stepped into the kitchen, I ducked as a Stunner whizzed over my head. Arcturus Black made a strangled, frightened noise in his frame, and I growled. Severus slipped past me to press himself against the wall next to the door.  
  
Standing at one end of the kitchen was Harry, his face contorted maliciously, and kneeling behind an overturned kitchen table at the other end was a figure that I had not seen in over a decade.  
  
Harry moved to cast another spell, a Blasting Hex, at the kitchen table. I prepared myself to move, but Severus moved first. A Shield Charm deflected the Hex and I grimaced as the sideboard next to me split in half sending dishes crashing to the floor.  
  
The kitchen reeked of magic and the walls were blackened by Hex and Curse burns. I blinked at Harry whose face was still twisted, his eyes glowing as he snarled at Severus.  
  
“Enough!” Severus bellowed his wand trained on Harry.  
  
“Move, Snape, don’t you know we’re under attack!”  
  
I frowned, and then remembering myself, moved to the kitchen table.   
  
“Like hell we are, Potter!” the figure bellowed, his voice deep and raspy.  
  
Gregory Goyle had been a big boy, and as a man, he was still big. As I stared down at him, he not noticing how near I was, I saw that instead of looking like some half-troll, he had grown into a normal looking man. The hair that grew down his forehead, a prominent feature I remembered from school, was receding into a normal hairline of bristly, dark hair. The dull, small eyes I remembered were sharper and larger as an adult, the shade of chestnuts, brown and luminous. He wore a Muggle suit, neatly tailored in dark blue flannel. Besides the vague resemblance to the boy I remembered and the long dark wood wand in his large hand, I would have believed that a strange Muggle was kneeling behind the overturned kitchen table, taking cover.  
  
“Hello, Goyle,” I said, breaking the tense silence. “If you won’t mind putting away your wand—and Harry putting away his, I’ll have Kreacher make some tea.”  
  
Gregory Goyle turned on me, eyes wide. However, as he studied me, his wand lowered and he stood on his feet. Goyle towered over me, as he always had, but as I looked up at him, I wondered how he had somehow managed to grow out his trollish Goyle genetic appearance.  
  
“Damnit, Hermione, he…” Harry started, his shouting voice hurting my ears in the small room.  
  
I turned to Harry and frowned. Severus sighed, glancing between Harry and Goyle, and surreptitiously disarmed Harry, catching the holly and phoenix feather between his long fingers. Harry growled, but seeing that Severus and I were in no state of alarm, moved to the fireplace and leaned back into the mantle.  
  
Goyle blinked at Severus and I as we began reassembling the kitchen, but Goyle’s eyes stayed on Severus, his mouth opening and shutting like a gasping fish. When the table, chairs, and sideboard were repaired and the scorch marks Vanished from the walls, Severus called for Kreacher.  
  
I motioned Goyle to sit, which he did, stiffly. I sighed, glancing to Harry who stood resolutely by the fire, his arms crossed tightly before his chest. Severus eventually passed Harry his wand, a cold expression on his face.  
  
“Miss Granger, would you please set me up right?”  
  
I jumped at the sound of Arcturus Black’s voice and then remembering that I was still holding his small portrait under my arm, set the portrait upright in the chair next to me, the one that Harry would not sit in.  
  
I wanted to laugh at the lost expression on Goyle’s face as he moved his eyes from me to the portrait and then to Severus. I was just as confused as to why Gregory Goyle, of all people, was in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. When Kreacher Levitated a fresh pot of tea and Conjured cups for all, I began.  
  
“You look well, Goyle.”  
  
Goyle’s attention fixed upon me and he nodded slowly.  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
Harry shifted, but said nothing. Goyle surveyed the room again and then set his eyes upon his tea.  
  
“I don’t know where I am.”  
  
I cocked my head. “Grimmauld Place, Harry’s house in London.”  
  
Goyle’s thick brow knitted. “London?”  
  
I nodded. “How did you get here?”  
  
“He got through the wards, the klaxons went off while I was in the sitting room upstairs…and this bastard was standing in the kitchen…” Harry gushed.  
  
I shot Harry a cold look and Harry folded in on himself again, silent.  
  
“Portkey,” Goyle muttered, moving his hand to his trouser pocket and pulling out a candy bar placing it next to his untouched tea. “I was standing on the platform, waiting for the train to work. I was late, but the platform was still crowed,” Goyle continued, his eyes moving from his tea to the crumpled candy bar. “I was standing near the edge, just behind the line. Some old woman, some barmy old bat in a nasty grey shawl, pushed the candy bar in my hand and winked. Then she pushed me again. She was a strong old bat, and I stared to fall in front of the train when the Portkey activated.  
  
And then I was in Potter’s kitchen, and he was throwing hexes at me.”  
  
I saw Severus frown. Harry scoffed, and oddly, the portrait to my right, began laughing.  
  
“She had to be a witch, but I never saw her before,” Goyle said quickly, raising his chestnut coloured eyes to me. “And now I’m here, in Potter’s house, and Professor Snape is alive…”  
  
Arcturus Black continued laughing, a wheezy laugh that was beginning to grate on my nerves.  
  
“Is this some nightmare?” Goyle asked, his raspy voice a grumble.  
  
“I wish it were, Mr. Goyle, alas, you are quite awake, and we are just as surprised to see you,” Severus said in a silky tone that I remember he reserved for those in his House at Hogwarts.  
  
Goyle stiffened at the sound of Severus’ voice, and I could understand why. Severus, however, did not seem very surprised at all, and lifted his black tea and drank.  
  
Sitting across the table from Goyle and Severus with the portrait of Sirius’ grandfather made me wonder if  _I_  were having the nightmare.  
  
“To be honest, sir,” Goyle said to Severus, turning his chair to regard his old Head of House, “Some of us suspected that maybe…” he trailed. “There was never a body.”  
  
Severus set his tea down slowly. I lowered my eyes to the tabletop.  
  
“Can you start from the beginning, Goyle…”  
  
“Call me Greg, Granger. I hate when…” he trailed again, folding his paw like hands on the table. “It makes me think of school, and I hated school.”  
  
I nodded. “Can you tell us where you were? Or more about the witch who gave you the Portkey?”  
  
Greg sighed and pursed his lips for a moment before beginning.  
  
“I live in Glasgow, I work in Glasgow. I was at St. George’s Cross metro station, I was running late to work…”  
  
“And what do you do?” I asked.  
  
Greg’s fingers moved to his cooling tea. “I work for a private firm, working on patents for new household products. Magic appliances, incorporating Muggle design and function… I was standing near the edge and this barmy old bat bumps into me. I thought for second that she was going to fall, and I caught her. I think she thanked me, and then grabbed my hand and pushed the candy into my palm. She winked at me, and pushed.  
  
Like I said, she had on some nasty grey shawl. She looked ancient, her face wrinkled, but I remember that when she winked, she had pale blue eyes. Tatty clothes, a net bag with more candy bars, and some sort of manky fedora over long grey hair. That’s all I know. I just only saw her for half a minute. It all happened so fast. Then I was here,” Greg finished, looking around the kitchen.   
  
Silence fell over the kitchen, Arcturus’ laughter fading.  
  
“A string of strange events, all leading us here, to Grimmauld Place,” Severus muttered over the rim of his tea. I watched as he sipped the last of his tea, his black eyes glittering, focused not on me, but past me. “A Portkey that sends Mr. Goyle here, through the wards of the house.”  
  
“He was sent here,” I whispered, moving my eyes to Arcturus who was gazing back at me out of the corner of the frame.  
  
“It’s not like I  _want_  to be sitting in Potter’s kitchen,” Greg started, but trailed noticing Harry stiffen.   
  
“Why was he sent here?” Harry growled. “Don’t tell me the Knights of Walpurgis sent him as well.”  
  
Severus reacted to Harry’s words by hissing, I had clenched my teeth.  
  
“The Knights of what?” Greg asked, his body language telling me that he was suddenly upset. “What the hell is going on here?”  
  
Severus relaxed and rose from his chair, moving about the table to stand behind me, now face to face with Greg. “A mystery, it seems, one that you have been brought into, against your will.”  
  
Greg grimaced, “A mystery is right. I don’t know what the hell Potter is talking about, and I cannot imagine how or why you’re standing in Potter’s house, Professor.”  
  
Severus’ hand rested on the back of my chair and I lowered my gaze to the table again. Slowly, Severus began explaining the situation, his coming to Grimmauld Place, the message he had from the Knights of Walpurgis, and the reason why the portrait of Arcturus Black was resting in the seat next to me.  
  
“I am assuming that you were sent as well, to be part of what is to come.”  
  
Greg digested the information Severus provided, his face steadily growing paler as Severus continued. At one point, Greg looked green, but slowly his face began to flush with healthy colour.  
  
When Severus finished, I watched as Greg’s eyes moved from me to the others in the room. His face was stony, his eyes flashing.  
  
“You all honestly believe that another Dark Wizard is on the rise?”  
  
None of us spoke.  
  
“Someone could be having you on, you know that, don’t you?”  
  
“It really is not a laughing matter, Goyle,” Harry spat.  
  
Greg shrugged, “I’m just saying… Don’t get me wrong, if there’s going to be another War—I’m not going to stand by like I did when we were kids.”  
  
I wondered then, where did Gregory Goyle’s allegiances lie. For that matter, where did mine?  
  
“I just want to know who the old bat was who sent me here, give her a piece of my mind. I’m missing a day of work because of her.”  
  
I had begun to tune out as the men continued talking. I listened distantly as Severus and Harry began arranging for Greg to use the Floo, hopefully unnoticed. I sat at the kitchen table, hearing Greg’s words that he would not mention Grimmauld Place, and Harry’s insistence that Greg take a Vow not to mention seeing Severus. There was a promise made to Greg that if we learned anything new about why he had been sent to Grimmauld Place, we would contact him.  
  
“So, it has begun?”  
  
I shook myself out of my thoughts at the sound of Arcturus Black’s voice. I turned to the portrait as Greg Flooed away.  
  
“You have some explaining to do,” I growled.  
  
Arcturus was affronted by my tone, and opened his mouth to scold me.  
  
“Aberforth and Horace are missing, and if they were members of your little secret society, you have become our only source of information.”  
  
Arcturus frowned. “Why do you think I would be part of the Knights of Walpurgis?”  
  
“Weren’t you?”  
  
Arcturus’ frown turned into a smirk. “It would be interesting to know of your ancestors, Miss Granger.”  
  
I turned my attention away again as Harry and Severus began talking next to the fire. Severus was explaining where he and I had been and why the portrait of Sirius’ great-great uncle was in the house.

 

 


	5. V

V

For lack of a better place to go, I returned to my flat in Sheffield. I was not alone, however, and Severus was standing just at the door of my flat as he had done the day before.

It was dark in the flat and only the reflecting light of the city off the overcast sky lent any light to the room. I sighed as I drew my wand, casting spell after spell, mostly Transfigurations. Using my books, I Transfigured 'Crime and Punishment' into a frame for mattress. Using 'Foucault's Pendulum', I had a privacy screen next to the bed. Using the chair at my desk, I had a cot. Using on old, borrowed copy of 'Mansfield Park,' I had a candelabra. Then slipping my wand back into my holster, I moved to the lavatory, withdrawing candles from a small overhead cupboard.

"You don't have electricity?" Severus asked, breaking the silence in the small flat.

"I used to," I mumbled as I began lighting the candles with a wandless spell for fire.

I turned back to Severus whose face was eerie in the candlelight.

"You can use elemental magic?"

Severus seemed full of questions. I nodded and Severus' dark eyes narrowed.

I let Severus have the bed, as he was a guest in my 'home.' I took my carpetbag into the small lavatory and in the dark; I bathed in cold water, missing Grimmauld Place already. We did not speak as Severus used the lavatory next, I sitting on my cot in an old oversized tee shirt that once belonged to Ron.

We had left Grimmauld Place after I insisted that Harry let his family return. It was wrong to keep the Potters out of their house for so long, and so I packed my things, and slipped Arcturus' sleeping frame into my bottomless bag.

Severus said nothing when he followed me out of Grimmauld Place, his face hidden under the cowl of his cloak. As I sat on the cot, reading the Codex again, I wondered how he could seem so calm.

Just in the dark lavatory, a man who was presumed dead for the past decade was showering. He had not aged; in fact, he looked healthier than the last time I had seen him. He had gaps in his memory, and had been used as a type of agent for a society whose purpose was to protect a very important secret.

It was ridiculous.

When Severus emerged, I quickly averted my eyes as he was wrapped in a towel about his narrow hips, rubbing another towel into his long, lank black hair. He carried his clothing in a folded pile under one damp arm, and as he moved behind the privacy screen, I felt a flash of magic. A drying Charm, I assumed as it was not a spell for light. The candelabrum on my side of the screen cast my projected shadow upon the ceiling and wall toward the enlarged bed.

After a few moments, I heard him lay down, the whisper of sheets moving. I closed the Codex and placed it under my Transfigured pillow next to my wand. I extinguished the candles and lay down. I rolled to lay on my back as my eyes began to adjust through the dull light filtering through the curtains behind my head.

I could hear him breathing softly, but I knew he was still awake.

"I'm sorry," I said.

I heard him shift in bed.

"Why?"

His voice was a whisper, and I inhaled deeply. I could smell soap and shampoo mixed with a unique masculine scent. It was a strange scent for my flat, but pleasant.

"This really is not the best place to stay."

"I've slept worse places, Miss Granger."

I imagined he had.

"You should call me by my first name," I suggested.

Again, "Why?"

I pressed my lips together, trying to decide how to answer.

"Miss Granger is too formal, and you are not my professor anymore."

"You do call me Severus."

"It is your name."

"Astute observation," he drawled sarcastically.

"And as a guest in my…home, I insist you call me Hermione."

"Very well," was his only answer and soon the flat was quiet again.

I started at the featureless ceiling for a long while, listening to Severus' breathing. It grew deeper.

"I'm sorry about this morning," I said finally. "I shouldn't have been so…"

He said nothing.

"You were just being careful…"

Again, nothing. I frowned at the ceiling. His breathing was deeper still, and I knew then Severus was asleep. I tried to follow suit.

"I am hungry," dream Severus said, staring at the golden apples hanging from the great boughs of the tree.

"I'm sorry," I felt myself say.

Severus held my hand tightly, but moved to reach up with his free hand to pluck an apple down from the closest limb. Holding the perfect golden apple in his left hand, he studied it in the hazy light. In the distance, my mother stopped playing the lyre.

"It seems like an age since I have beheld something so perfect," Severus whispered, his words cryptic.

Severus was transfixed by the gleam of light off the apple's skin, and I began to feel very nervous. As he lowered the apple to his thin lips, I tugged on his hand.

"Don't," I whispered as he turned his onyx eyes to me. "Please, Severus, if you love me, you won't…"

Severus turned to me, dropping the apple to the ground. He stood before me, raising my hand to his pale cheek. "I do love you," he whispered.

He kissed me, leaning down to cup my face in his large hands. He tasted like anise, and my mother began playing the lyre again at the base of the great apple tree.

I awoke in a daze, and rose from the cot, padding quietly to the lavatory. When I had finished, I moved half asleep to the bed, stumbling, finding, oddly, that the mattress was raised off the floor. I slid my bare legs under the sheets and pulled them up around my neck, cold.

"What did you dream?"

I yawned into the pillow as my feet began to move against each other slowly, as was habit when I slept. I felt warmer soon, and my mind danced on the edge of the dream again.

"What did you dream, Hermione," a voice whispered against the back of my head.

A warm arm slid over my waist, curling around me. I smiled, thinking that Ron was cuddling into my back, but Ron was not ever so warm, or smelled so good.

"The tree," I mumbled into the pillow as a male body curled around me, encapsulating me in warmth.

"Which tree?" he whispered.

I hummed as his lips brushed against the back of my neck. "Apple, not yew."

The arm about my waist moved under the sheets, a hand emerging to brush my hair from my face.

"Who was with you?"

The voice was like silk brushing over my face, my whole body, and it made me rub my thighs together.

"Mum… Severus…"

I could see the tree from where I lay on the bed on my left side. I could see my mother under the boughs, gently plucking the six stringed of the lyre. I could hear the chords and melodies wafting toward me in gentle sound waves. Severus was lying behind me, holding me, his upper body upraised to look over me, to brush the hair from my face.

"What happened in the dream?" dream Severus asked.

I laughed softly. "You were there…you know."

His hand moved along my shoulder to my waist, resting upon my hip. I sighed as a dream breeze blew across my skin. I was comfortably warm, and content.

"Tell me," Severus whispered, his breath hot against my exposed cheek.

"Kissed me," I mumbled in a whisper, smelling the scent of forbidden apples on the breeze. "Told me you loved me."

Severus seemed to hum, and I could feel his chest pressed against my back as he lay his head down on my pillow.

"Why would I do that?"

"Don't know, don't care…you were with me…all that mattered."

I closed my eyes to the sight of the tree. The intoxicating closeness of Severus against my back and the warmth of his body made my dream-self sleep. The tree, my mother, everything melted into a glowing dark haze of contentment.

I woke, confused, suddenly very aware, and very alert. I extracted myself from an embrace that made my face burn with a blush. I had been inside Severus Snape's pale, lean, muscular arms. He wore only his trousers to bed, and when I opened my eyes, it was to find my forehead pressed into his collarbone, my nose pressed into an old circular scar near his heart.

The smattering of course black hair upon his chest ticked my lips, and as I tried to move, Severus resisted the touch, relinquishing his hold. We were on our sides, facing each other.

By the time I sat on the edge of the bed, wiping away the last vestiges of sleep from my eyes, I knew he was awake and staring into my back. I rose from the bed, feeling my large tee shirt fall to mid-thigh. I did not turn, I did not acknowledge Severus, and I did not want him to see my fiery blush or my mortification.

I slipped around the privacy screen, grabbed my carpetbag, and walked to the lavatory. It was morning, the sun had just risen, and there was enough light in the small lavatory for me to begin retrieving my clothes out of my bag. Inside, I could hear Arcturus snoring still. I knew I would have to speak with him after I felt my blush fade.

I dressed in the clothes I had worn the day before, the tight dragon hide regalia of my Auror days. I secured my chest holster, and remembered that I had left my wand under the pillow of the Transfigured cot. I was in no hurry to leave the lavatory. Instead, I gazed into the small mirror over the sink, trying to pull all my hair up into a ponytail. Even in the near dark, I could see the flush of my cheeks and neck.

My dreams during the night came back to me, and my face seemed to burn a new terrible shade of pink. I had been talking in my sleep.

After six years of living alone, habits and routines were hard to break. No one slept in my bed but me. It had been a simple mistake, easily explained, and hopefully, easily forgotten. The dream, however, was not.

I had no food in my flat; in fact, my flat was nothing more than a shelter in which to sleep and nothing else. When I moved back into the room, Severus was dressed and using his wand to make the bed. I swallowed thickly, clutching the strap handles of my carpetbag.

"There used to be a restaurant near here, closer to the motorway," Severus said softly, his back to me as he slipped his wand back under the darkness of his cloak.

"In Attercliffe?" I asked, not knowing of any place in my neighborhood that served anything more than ale and crisps.

"Near the stadium."

Severus turned to me; his eyes were not upon my face, but my carpetbag.

When we left the slum, we both had Transfigured our cloaks to hooded jackets, something more fitting with Muggle fashion. Severus had Charmed his long hair red, and cast a glamour on his face so that he looked more like a Weasley relative than a Snape.

As Severus had said, there was a small restaurant across the river from stadium. The patrons were warehouse workers for the most part, but there were also some teenagers dressed in outrageous clothing, their mien indicating that they were fresh from a night in the city centre. It was seven in the morning.

We ate in silence, my carpetbag still snoring softly on the booth seat next to me. Severus finished his breakfast by sopping up some yolk with a bit of toast, lifting it to his mouth with his long fingers. I ate little, but sipped on a cup of unusually strong coffee. When he spoke, I was surprised, his voice not matching his glamoured face.

"Are you going to explain why you have Arcturus Black's portrait in your bag?"

I set my coffee down and glanced over my shoulder. The restaurant was quiet, and the other patrons were too absorbed in their meals or cups of coffee to note our presence. All the same, I slipped my wand from its holster under my Transfigured hoodie to cast a silent Muffliato Charm.

"Black is one of the portraits who mentioned the Knights of Walpurgis, is it not?"

I nodded, "Along with Abraxas Malfoy."

Severus' glamoured face pinched unpleasantly, and I wondered what his true face was expressing. He pushed his near empty plate away from him and rested his elbows on the table.

"Working on the assumption that whoever has confiscated your files at the Ministry, you stole the portrait due to its importance to 'our' investigation. The question is then, what are you going to do about Malfoy's portrait?"

I glanced away, "I don't know. I honestly don't know what I should be doing."

"Securing possible sources of information seems to be our first priority."

I nodded again. If someone were gathering information on the Knights of Walpurgis, surely they would be working on the same assumptions as I. This assumption followed the line that if Arcturus Black and Abraxas Malfoy had been the reason why I no longer had a job, as they had been the ones to mention the Knights of Walpurgis, didn't these portraits have some connection to the group? Both had corrected my faulty knowledge on the society.

"I doubt that Lucius Malfoy would let you or anyone in the Manor to remove a priceless family portrait."

Severus, I knew, was right. I had had a hard enough time convincing the Malfoy family to let me enter their home, let alone interview a previous family patriarch. Lucius Malfoy, though exonerated after the War, only cooperated with the Ministry when he had something to gain. By allowing me into the Manor, he had gained the right to reclaim some of his confiscated property. After the War, the Ministry had stripped the Malfoys of their wealth, and most of their rights. The Malfoys had been under an unofficial house arrest until four years ago.

"What do you suggest we do?" I asked Severus, honestly seeking his input. I felt as if I were scrambling in the dark.

Severus wiped his glamoured lips slowly, his odd blue eyes distant.

"In the meantime, we interview Arcturus Black's portrait, glean what information we can. I will send an owl to Lucius."

I opened my mouth to protest, but closed it again as Severus' gaze leveled on me.

"If anyone were to believe I had survived, it would be Lucius, Miss-Hermione. Leave the Malfoys to me."

I could not argue. I would never have any true rapport with the Malfoy family, even when I had interviewed Abraxas Malfoy's portrait, I could tell that the Malfoys only tolerated my presence.

"We need to find a suitable place to stay. Your flat is too isolating, too far away from anything we may need…" Severus trailed, his eyes growing distant again. "Spinner's End is gone, so forcing the Potters out of Grimmauld place may be our only option."

I frowned. Ginny and Harry knew of Severus, even Arthur knew, but using Grimmauld Place to house a rouge ex-Auror, and a dead man just did not seem fair to Harry. There was nowhere else. I then remembered that Goyle had appeared in Grimmauld Place—the Knights of Walpurgis knew of Grimmauld Place, it was where Severus appeared as well.

I found Muggle money in my carpetbag, and throwing the pound notes on the table, I wandlessly cancelled the Muffliato Charm. Grimmauld Place, it had to be, and so it was when we Apparated away from Sheffield.

"I hate this, Hermione," Ginny Potter said to me as she helped Albus and Jamie pack things into a trunk. "I know why it has to be, but still…"

I leaned against the jamb of the door into the room the boys shared. Albus and Jamie had Harry's dark hair, but both had the Weasley freckles. I adored the boys, but as they packed, thinking that they were going to move in with 'Nana' and 'Poppy' for good, they were happy. Ginny, on the other hand, was aggravated as she rearranged clothes and toys into separate piles in the trunk instead of the haphazard manner in which the boys threw their belongings inside.

"I'm sorry, Ginny. I don't want this either, but you and the boys will be safer at the Burrow."

"Safer? What's the danger?" Ginny huffed, a hand running over her belly.

I sighed. "It is the possibility of danger that has us worried."

Ginny snorted. "You don't even really know what is going on, Hermione, admit it! Severus Snape suddenly shows up and everyone is automatically moving like we are at war!"

I noticed that Albus' eyes widened at the sound of his mother speaking his middle name. I stiffened. The children knew very well who Severus Snape had been, like a fairy tale character. I was more concerned that in Ginny's agitation she would say more that could endanger the children. Ginny seemed to realize her slip, her eyes flashing to the boys who had paused in their packing. The boys were small, but they knew enough about the War from their uncle Bill's stories.

Ginny snapped at the boys to hurry, and then moved across the room to grasp my arm, pulling me outside, shutting and silencing the door behind her.

"Has anyone been killed? Has anyone been hurt?" Ginny asked in a hissed whisper in the dark of the corridor.

"Not that I know of…" I started in a grumble.

"Then why? Why is Harry running around collecting information for you? And why are you protecting Snape?"

I could not answer.

"You know what, never mind…" Ginny growled.

I sighed again. I wanted to console Ginny, tell her everything was just a precaution, but for what exactly, I could not say.

"I'm taking the boys to the Burrow," Ginny stated, and I could tell she was trying to calm herself. By the way she rubbed her swollen belly, I figured that little Lily-yet-to-be-born, was kicking Ginny in the diaphragm.

To my surprise, Ginny embraced me, and I could feel Lily kicking against her belly. The sensation was odd to me, and heartbreaking. My child had kicked often even at four months.

"Just be safe, Hermione," Ginny whispered in my ear, and whirled away opening the bedroom door and asking the boys not to jump on top the trunk to make it shut.

I moved away and down the dark stairs. I felt so weary, so lost. However, as I entered the kitchen, everything came back into clarity. Severus was on his feet, next to Harry, his glamour dispelled. He was slipping his wand into his belt holster and then whirled his cloak onto his shoulders. By the expression on their faces, I knew something was wrong.

As I stepped further into the kitchen, Harry turned to me. He was in his dark red Auror's robes, and from the soot on his shoulders, I knew he had just stepped out of the Floo.

"Malfoy Manor has been attacked," Harry said softly.

My eyes moved to Severus who was moving to the fireplace, grabbing a pot of Floo Powder in his hand.

"Has been or is being?" I asked, rushing to Severus' side.

"Is," Severus growled.

Harry moved to stop me from grabbing Floo Powder, ready to move behind Severus. However, when he grasped my shoulder, Severus' wand was pointed at Harry's face.

"The Ministry cannot interfere yet," Severus said flatly and Harry's hand moved from my shoulder. "Come along, Miss Granger," he snarled.

I glanced back to Harry whose eyes were narrowed. He nodded to me as Severus announced his destination: Malfoy Manor. I wondered if I would have some sense of understanding when I would Floo to Wiltshire.

A Stunner whizzed by my head as I stepped out of an ornate marble fireplace, and I instinctually rolled. I could hear shouting, but who and from where was a mystery as the foyer of Malfoy Manor was filled with smoke.

The light from Curses flew all around me and as I rose to my feet, Severus was just beside me. I could barely see his face for the acrid white smoke, but I knew that he was aware of how close I was to his left elbow.

"Stay close," he snarled, and then cast what looked like a Stunner into the smoke.

I narrowed my eyes and tried not to breathe too deeply. I saw movement in the smoke, and I too, cast a Stunner. The sound of a body falling hard upon the stone floor made my blood buzz. It had been too long since I had been in a fight.

"Go left," Severus whispered, his voice almost lost under the hum of magic.

I nodded, and moved.

Crouching, I moved to the body I had dropped to the floor. Twisting my wand, the air cleared as I knelt next to the black clad figure.

It was one of the men who had cleared out my office, the man whose collar I held and demanded answers. He was unconscious, but by the cuts and blood, I could tell that he had been fighting a while before Severus and I had arrived. I searched his robes, finding nothing. There was no warrants, no identification, nothing that would tell me why someone from the Department of Intelligence should be fighting in the foyer of Malfoy Manor.

The fast staccato of footsteps on the marble alerted me that someone was running wildly through the smoke to my location. The smoke cleared enough for me to see another black-cloaked man, another face with dull eyes I vaguely remembered swiping the papers off the top of my desk into a box.

I rolled away from the body, my back pressed into the foyer wall. The dull-eyed man did not seem to see me, but saw his comrade on the floor. I watched as he knelt by the unconscious man, and drawing out a beat up pocket watch, press it into the lax hand.

Portkey.

Within ten seconds, both men were gone, and the shouting stopped. The bright flashes of Curses also stopped, and I knew that whomever was attacking the Manor had Portkeyed away.

I stood slowly, and took a breath, coughing involuntarily. Whatever was burning was spewing more and more white, eye-watering smoke through the large foyer. I covered my mouth with one hand and began incanting silently. The smoke dissipated and soon I found that I was near the front doors of the Manor. The smoke's origin came from an aerosol can in the middle of the hall. It was not tear gas, but it was nearly as unpleasant. With another incantation, I Vanished the can and almost immediately the room was clearer.

Near to where the can had been placed, was a crumpled figure in black robes. It was to this figure that I moved to first. I knew, however, as I approached, the man was dead. He lay face down in a pool of blood, grisly chunks of brain matter contrasting the dark blood with pinkish grey flesh. I nudged his body with the toe of my boot, and then kneeling, flipped the body over. I recognized the man as the one who had passed me the notice of the dissolution of my office even though part of his forehead was missing. Someone's Blasting Hex was too close, I supposed.

"Hermione, over here," I heard a voice say, and I rose, turning to the terminus of the great staircase.

Severus was kneeling on the stairs next to a figure I had not seen since the Battle of Hogwarts.

Lucius Malfoy had not aged well. His long blond hair was thin and lank. Dark rings marred the once pale perfection of his face, making his icy blue eyes seem preternatural and strange. His skin was ashen, and dry, as if made of paper.

As I approached, I could see that Lucius was bleeding from somewhere along his midriff. The dark green smoking jacket he wore was black with blood. Severus was fighting Lucius to let him examine the wound, but Lucius seemed to be in shock.

"Help me," Severus snarled, not bothering to look at me.

Lucius lay back against the carpeted stairs, his eyes unfocussed. Severus held Lucius' hands while I untied the belt of the jacket, peeling back the satiny fabric. Underneath, Lucius wore a thin white shirt, and from the way his ribs stuck out from his bloody flesh and shirt, I could tell that he had been hit with a Crushing Curse. He was breathing shallowly, and the smaller wounds were superficial.

I knelt next to Lucius, avoiding his dropped wand, and began moving my lips to incant healing spells—basic pain reducing Charms, bone mending Charms, everything I had learned to use as an Auror. I was no Healer, but I did the best I could. He would need potions to heal everything properly. All I knew was basic combat Healing.

Soon, the ribs were inside the muscle and skin, and the wound began to close.

"He needs a Healer, potions, at least," I muttered as my last spell began to heal the last of the bruising about his ribs on his right side.

"Tamlin!" Severus called, and I blinked, surprised.

A pop on the step above Lucius' head signified the arrival of a frightened elf whose left ear was bleeding greenish blood. I wondered then if there were any other casualties in the house.

"Bring a blood replenishing draught…" Severus started, but another voice stopped him.

"No, let me die…"

It was Lucius who spoke, his voice broken. He was gazing at Severus through misty eyes. I had hoped the pain of the healing Charms would have rendered the Death Eater unconscious.

Lucius grasped Severus' hand and Severus began to recoil, startled.

"You are not going to die, you old inbred fool!" Severus snarled.

Lucius laughed, but ended with coughing, bloody phlegm coating his colourless lips. He needed more than a blood replenishing draught, in my opinion.

Severus ignored Lucius and ordered the elf bring more potions. Soon the elf was gone and Lucius had stopped coughing.

"I thought I was really insane when the owl came with your message," Lucius wheezed.

The elf returned and Severus took six phials to pour them down Lucius' throat. The first knocked Lucius out cold, a blessing, I thought.

"Go, Hermione, see to the portrait," Severus muttered as he held Lucius' mouth open to pour more potions down the pale man's gullet.

I hesitated, "How did you know?"

It was a vague question, but Severus seemed to smirk. "After the message, I place a Floo call…"

I nodded, and rose. I could see the order of events. Severus sent a message to which there was perhaps a doubtful reply. Severus had made the call from Grimmauld Place, and saw the fight, or heard it. I would have to get details later.

"Where is his family?" I asked, turning from half way up the stairs.

Severus shook his head, not knowing. I groaned softly, glancing to the body in the foyer. The 'men in black' had come to Malfoy Manor, uninvited. Had Lucius resisted?

My feet were moving, running up the staircase to the third floor. Down a corridor to the end, I knew I had to find the door to the attic staircase. Along the way, there did not seem to be anything out of the ordinary in the pristine and lifeless house. There was no sign of a fight, no bodies.

I pounded up the wooden stairs and flew into the attic gallery. The sound of protest filled my ears in the near darkness of the gallery. I had roused the portraits from an afternoon nap. I ignored the insults and jeers as I strode along the long gallery until I stood before Abraxas Malfoy's confused face. It seemed he had not been napping, but listening.

"The Knights have sent their warning, Lord Malfoy, I have to take you now," I breathed, somewhat winded.

"Arcturus' portrait?" Abraxas Malfoy growled, his pale painted eyes seeming to flash from its frame.

"Safe. I'm going to have to shrink your portrait…"

I hated to shrink portraits, but Abraxas Malfoys' frame was four feet high and three feet across and far too unwieldy. Abraxas Malfoy opened his mouth to speak, but already I had my wand out.

"I'm sorry," I muttered as I cast the spell until the portrait was small enough to slip into the pocket in my traveling cloak. Pulling the miniature portrait from the wall, I carried it carefully in my hand.

Again, I ignored the heated insults, and made my way down again, relieved. The 'men in black' had not been able to move beyond the foyer.

When I came down the stairs, Severus was Levitating Lucius' body through a door off the foyer. I followed, finding it to be a study. The room on the opposite side of the foyer had been where Bellatrix had Cursed me. I shivered at the memory as I watched Severus place Lucius upon a leather couch near the fire.

"Tamlin tells me that Narcissa and Draco have gone to Italy for the rest of the season, a fortunate thing," Severus muttered, moving to the sideboard. I heard the clink of a brandy decanter as I closed the door behind me. "He'll be fine when he wakes."

I nodded, my eyes fixed upon the bloody and pale man whose face seemed younger as he slept. When I had come to the Manor before, it had been Narcissa I had seen and spoken to, Draco and Lucius somewhere in the house, not willing to speak to me.

"The portrait?"

Severus had a glass of brandy in his hand when he turned to me.

I had slipped Abraxas Malfoy into my pocket before reaching the foyer, and as way of answer, patted my breast where the portrait rested in the pocket of my cloak.

"No need to mention it to Lucius, he hated his father," Severus said with a sigh, raising the glass to his lips and sipping slowly.

"We should wake him."

Severus blinked as he finished drinking. "The Ministry will be here soon," he said, his voice softer.

"Then we need to go."

"I agree."

"We still should wake him," I said again, a bit more insistent.

Severus narrowed his eyes. "It would be interesting to know why men were trying to kill Lucius, but we do not have the time."

I ground my teeth. "We will make time, Severus."

His eyes sparkled for an instant, and then moved to Lucius. Placing his glass on the sideboard, he drew his wand and stalked to Lucius' form. I edged closer to the couch and watched as Severus incanted aloud, 'Rennervate.'

Lucius' eyelids flickered before opening.

"Severus?"

Severus nodded, standing over Lucius like a vision of black death.

"Am I dead?"

Severus grimaced. "We do not have time for this, Lucius. Who attacked you?"

Lucius swallowed dryly. "You promise to explain yourself?"

Severus nodded. "Tell me."

Lucius' eyes rolled, but he did not see me from where I stood near the door. "I got your message, though I think I was dreaming that part. I was walking down to the study, and the Floo activated."

Lucius paused, his eyes becoming keener as he studied Severus. I could see that Lucius was as confused as I had been on first seeing a resurrected Severus Snape.

"Ten men stepped out, uninvited. They all had on black robes, and one spoke. They claimed to be from the Department of Intelligence. I asked why they were there, and they said they came to confiscate sensitive material…

The Ministry has taken everything, Severus," Lucius said in a type of childish whinge. "They took all my books except Draco's Muggle books…"

I had not noticed when I had entered the study, but the shelves were almost bare, in place of the books, however, were stacks of newspapers, copies and copies of the Daily Prophet.

"They took all my nice clothes, the furniture. They even took some of the elves, all to repay the blood traitors after the War…"

Severus sighed, and flashed a dark glance at me. I stiffened. I had not known how much the Ministry had taken, during my Auror days; I had little to do with the Malfoy family. When I had come to interview the portraits, I was only shown the foyer, a small third floor lavatory, and the attic gallery.

"I told them I wanted to see the paperwork. They said that as a matter of 'homeland' security, they did not need paperwork or warrants to seize property of a 'sensitive nature.'"

Lucius' voice turned mocking, but I could not fault him his feelings.

"I resisted, and then it started. Someone dropped a canister and smoke filled the foyer. I managed to hit one of them before I could not see any more. I moved off the staircase, fighting, but then something hit me…and you were there…" Lucius trailed, his voice softening.

From my vantage point, I could see tears in Lucius Malfoy's dark ringed eyes.

I cleared my throat as Lucius and Severus gazed at each other. At any moment, Harry and the Aurors would arrive. We had made enough time to know Lucius Malfoy's retelling of events. Again, I cleared my throat and Severus looked away from Lucius.

"I promise, old friend, that I will explain myself. In the meantime, I have to go. The Ministry's Aurors will be here. Do not tell them that you saw me."

Lucius nodded. "A promise."

"Tell them what you told me. Without any proper documentation, the Ministry had no right to enter the Manor."

Severus glanced to me and I nodded. It was true, unless the 'men in black' had had a warrant or notice; they had no right to enter the Manor uninvited. I knew the laws. Internal affairs were different, but for Lucius Malfoy, he was well within his right to defend himself.

"Tell them that the elves helped you," Severus continued. "I promise to be in contact soon."

Lucius nodded, closing his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks.

I moved before Severus, opening the study door. Severus was soon pushing me to one of the fireplaces in the foyer. I urged Severus to Floo to Grimmauld Place first. Just as I stepped in, announcing my intended destination, the Floo across the foyer activated. I was gone before Harry Potter stepped fully out into Malfoy Manor.


	6. VI

**VI**

"You must find the others," Abraxas Malfoy said from his portrait.

Severus and I had waited the rest of that day for Harry to return from Malfoy Manor. We had argued on and off, I, wishing that we had Obliviated Lucius before leaving the Manor, Severus claiming that Lucius was immune to the common Memory Charms. Grimmauld Place, thankfully, was empty during our argument, Ginny having taken the boys to the Burrow hours before. As we had promised, we Flooed Greg to come to Grimmauld Place, and he came, stepping out into the kitchen as soon as Severus had pulled his head out of the fireplace.

Harry had returned with a sour expression on his face, which turned to disgust seeing Greg Goyle in his impeccable Muggle suit, leaning against the door leading down into the scullery. As I had thought, Lucius Malfoy would not be charged in killing one Michael Williams, an agent of the Department of Intelligence. The Aurors, after their investigation, found that the men who had entered the Manor had no provocation to do so. There had been no official order from the Ministry.

"Percy's office is in disarray," Harry had said after telling Severus, Greg, and me the news. "The paper trail of orders and seizures begins from somewhere in the Ministry, and then disappears. Percy is having a fit."

It was as before. Someone in the Ministry, someone who had authority, was ordering Percy's men to act. However, I could not think of that matter as we stared at the resized portraits of Abraxas Malfoy and Arcturus Black propped up on kitchen chairs.

"Albus mentioned eight, designating the eight 'watchtowers,'" Severus said as a matter of stating and not directed to the older men in the frames.

We stood in the kitchen, too anxious to sit, but had the portraits in the chairs, facing the scullery.

"Who are they?" Harry asked, ruffling his messy hair.

"Four stand before us," Arcturus said.

I scoffed, "I don't remember being asked if I wanted to be part of some secret society."

"Most of you are part by your blood," Abraxas sniffed, "I don't know about you, Miss Granger, but it was you that Prince's grandson was sent to meet."

I blinked. "No, it was Harry…"

"Whose family has been part of the Knights since the beginning."

Severus paced. "My grandfather, Ulysses was part of the Knights of Walpurgis," he stated instead of posing his words as a question.

Abraxas nodded. "The oldest of us when we numbered eight."

"And the others?" Harry asked.

"Abraxas and myself," Arcturus began, "Ulysses, my sister Belvina and brother Cygnus, Aberforth Dumbledore, Horace Slughorn, and Perpetua Fancourt."

Abraxas made a hissing sound and glanced to his left, toward Arcturus' portrait. Arcturus pursed his lips and continued.

"The last full court, as we called it, was a bit narrowed. There was three of the Noble House of Black for lack of finding the other heirs."

I cocked my head, thinking. Harry was related to the Blacks, his great aunt Dorea Potter had been a Black, daughter of Cygnus Black. Severus' grandfather Ulysses Prince…

"What of Greg?"

Greg perked up and took a step away from the scullery door.

Severus and Harry turned their attentions to me at the sound of me saying Greg Goyle's first name. I straightened, pushing off the repaired sideboard to move closer to the portraits.

"Greg was sent here without any knowledge of the Knights of Walpurgis…" I trailed.

Perpetua Fancourt, inventor of the Lunascope, was, from last count, alive. I had met her once, not long after the War. Aurora Sinistra had introduced me when I was still considering going into something other than law enforcement. I remembered that Perpetua Fancourt was quite old, a bit barmy…

I slapped a hand over my mouth and bit into my forefinger. Greg's face was colourless as he stared at me.

"Goyle? I have not heard that name in an age," Arcturus scoffed. "You must be from Horace's line. I believe the line of descent came through the Burkes. A Goyle married a Burke girl—Horace's cousin…"

Greg opened his mouth to speak, but Abraxas spoke first.

"No, no," Abraxas protested. "The boy would be through your sister Belvina's line, it is that Burke you are remembering, Arcturus!"

Arcturus grumbled, his dark brow moving comically.

"Enough!" Severus growled, startling all in the room. "You mentioned Aberforth and Horace, both are missing," he said when all eyes were upon him.

"Missing?" Abraxas echoed, his pale eyes widened. "How long?"

Arcturus, who knew of the two men's disappearance said nothing, but had a satisfied smirk on his painted lips.

"Two weeks," I said softly. "But more importantly, gentlemen, if we are to act in some way, we need to know why."

Harry nodded, his face betraying his bewilderment. The men in the portraits seemed to share a glance and then rearranged themselves in their frames, still.

"It has begun," Abraxas drawled in typical Malfoy manner.

"So we have been told when Severus reappeared after supposedly being dead for over twelve years," I grumbled. "Unfortunately, Severus was only given a cryptic message to pass to Harry and myself."

"It started with our own words, did it not?" Arcturus asked meekly.

I sighed, sadly.

"I believe so. So you see, whatever has begun is because of you two and…my notes," I mumbled, glancing to Severus whose pale arms were crossed tightly before his wide chest. Greg had begun pacing before the steps leading down into the scullery, and I shifted my weight to one hip as I stood before the portraits.

"And so the Ministry, no—someone in the Ministry is trying to collect as much information about the Knights of Walpurgis as possible, all because of us," I continued. "The surviving eight have noticed, sent Severus back from the dead, and here we are…"

The portraits said nothing, but their painted eyes had drifted to the bottom corners of their frames, deep in thought.

"What is this secret that the Knights of Walpurgis is so concerned with protecting?"

The real question and I had posed it to those who had effectively turned my life upside down.

"It deals with a legend," Abraxas began, but paused, his old, pale eyes moving to each person in the kitchen. "A very famous legend that even children know."

"Merlin," Arcturus said bluntly, annoyed with Abraxas' preamble.

I knew that the men in the room were staring coldly at the portraits as I was, but it was Greg who spoke first.

"Merlin? Merlin as in Myrddin Wyllt, the Bard, and the so many other epithets?"

I turned to stare incredulously at Greg, who, suddenly feeling uncomfortable moved back to the scullery door again.

"Yes, Merlin," Abraxas sighed. "Two thousand or more years ago, Merlin's influence left the land, before Hogwarts, before Christianity destroyed so much of our magic…" he trailed, his eyes closing as if to remember that time long ago.

"What does a legendary dead wizard have to do with the rise of another Dark Wizard?" Harry asked, irritated, "And Snape being alive?" he added.

"A great deal," Abraxas answered with a snarl.

"When does history become legend, Mr. Potter?" Arcturus asked softly, "The answer is: when the truth is suppressed. The truth is suppressed for two reasons. One, to protect the populace from the horror of this truth. Or two, to suppress knowledge to make a society more docile, malleable, to be used by those in power who know the truth."

I could see the truth in Arcturus' words, but prerogative must be taken into consideration. Both of Arcturus' reasons could be used as one, case in point, Voldemort's quest for the Hallows and immortality.

"In the case of the Knights, it is the first reason why you all believe that Merlin is more a figure of legend than of fact," Abraxas added.

I heard Greg make a noise, and then heard him say: "Then, what truth to the legends is being suppressed?"

I smirked. Good question.

"There is part of the legend of Merlin, a part that speaks of Merlin and a woman who had many names," Arcturus said, glancing disdainfully at Abraxas.

I could see out of the corner of my eye that Harry frowned. "Nimue?"

"That is one name. Viviane, Nimue, Elaine, Nyneve, and in some legends, the Lady of the Lake in others…" Abraxas drawled.

"The witch who beguiled Merlin and imprisoned him," I heard Greg mumble.

Both portraits grinned oddly. "That is the legend, and that is where the matter of the truth has been suppressed."

I swayed on my feet, and suddenly, I was sitting, Severus having pulled a chair out for me to sit. In fact, as I regained my bearings, I found that all three men were around me, Severus behind me, Harry to my right, and Greg to my left. Severus' hands rested upon my shoulders, and I could feel Harry seethe next to me.

"Consider this," Arcturus said, a strange glimmer in his grey eyes. "Consider every story of Merlin you have heard, consider the tale of Nimue. Then consider that perhaps Nimue did not imprison Merlin because she was a spiteful witch who wanted all of Merlin's power. She did this because she had enough power herself, and imprisoned the wizard to keep from becoming something more than an advisor to a Muggle king and manipulator of fates."

"She imprisoned him because he was becoming too powerful," Severus sighed.

"And in that manner, she kept Merlin from becoming a Dark Wizard, and eventual Dark Lord," Abraxas added.

Lord Acton's dictum scampered through the forefront of my mind. Besides the famed quote, the next part had said: 'Great men are almost always bad men.'

Then Harry said it, through his shock, what we were all beginning to conclude.

"This new Dark Wizards is looking to somehow use Merlin or his magic?"

The portraits answered with their silence. I closed my eyes. I wanted to swear, say 'Merlin,' but it seemed wrong now.

"What do Dark Wizards usually want, Potter?" Severus asked, a rhetorical question from my point of view.

"More power," Greg answered, "Immortality, dominion over every living thing, one or all."

"Yes," Abraxas said finally, "and now after generations, the Knights of Walpurgis, once called the Order of Merlin, has been reformed."

"Reformed?" Greg spat. "I may have said some high and mighty things before, but this is…" he trailed.

I opened my eyes.

"We have been contacted, and now, some of us, by birthright, have been chosen. Severus, by whatever machination, was sent to us, just as you were Greg," I whispered. "This has been put before us…"

I still could not foresee the implications, I could not see the totality of the danger, but I knew it was there, if the attack on Malfoy Manor had been any indication.

"Miss Granger, you asked the right questions, spoke to the right people. You have the knowledge to do what may need to be done," Abraxas said, steering all my attention to his pale face. "There will be one more, most likely born into the role of a Knight."

I shook my head and my stupor from my brain.

"And what does that mean? I have lost my position at the Ministry. I am destitute… I am not…" I trailed, unsure of what I wanted to say originally.

Harry knelt next to me, grasping my hand. I could feel frustrated tears in my eyes as I looked into his familiar, handsome face.

"You are not alone in feeling a bit lost, luv," Harry whispered.

I sighed a laugh.

"We need to find the others—Horace, Aberforth and the last member of our confused little band," I said with a catch in my throat as Harry rose, but still held my hand. "I don't want to wait until we are contacted again. If we have been charged to neutralize another Dark Lord… I want to do it before it leads to a full scale war."

I heard all mutter in agreement. Another war would destroy our world, especially a world still in tatters so soon after Voldemort.

"What now?" Greg asked, and I felt the mood of the kitchen lift. "I have a life in Glasgow, a job…"

"A vow," Harry said.

"A vow of secrecy or some equivalent," Greg agreed. "Prof-Severus?"

I felt Severus' hand move on my shoulders, gripping me although he probably thought nothing of the motion. "A variant of an Unbreakable Vow."

I bowed my head. Something about the talk of Dark Wizards and Vows made me think I had stepped back in time. I moved my eyes to the portraits again, who was staring back at me, their faces grave.

"Gentlemen, you will have to stay in this house, for the time being," I told the portraits.

Both men nodded, but Arcturus added: "Nowhere near Walburga, I beg you."

* * *

Sometime in the early morning, I sat again at the kitchen table, resting my head on my folded arms, leaning into the table. The portraits had been moved to the sitting room and covered. Greg had Flooed back to Glasgow and Harry had Flooed back to the Burrow. Severus and I were left alone in Grimmauld Place, lost in thoughts and speculations.

When Severus set a cup of tea before me, I straightened in my chair as he moved to sit across from me. Sitting at the table, across from each other seemed to be habit after only a few days.

"I can only imagine how you must feel," I blurted out, knowing that my words were vague.

Severus said nothing for a moment as he let his own cup of tea cool.

"Having pieces of my memory lost, not knowing how I survived or why it seems I have not aged since the night in the Shack, you mean?"

There was an air of sarcasm in his voice, but I ignored it. I nodded. He had known my meaning.

"I am not exactly sure how _I_ feel about it," he said, his lips twisting into some sort of strained smirk.

"You haven't missed anything good or exciting, just so you know," I said softly.

"How so?"

I laid my head down on folded arms again, resting my left cheek on my forearm; my eyes level with Severus' chest.

"Imagine, what _would the_ world be like after Voldemort? After so long asleep, Britain is suddenly shaken awake by Voldemort's second War. After Voldemort is defeated, we see the signs we had missed of his revival and the War that resulted. Paranoia, fear, corruption, and those who profit from those things are suddenly in every bit of society after Voldemort—claiming to protect us. Britain falls asleep again, thinking that after instituting measures to keep something like Voldemort from happening again. Liberties are lost in lieu of 'protection.' That is what you have missed."

Severus rubbed his pointed chin. "And you? Did you and Potter try to keep Britain awake?"

I smiled. "At first."

"You were an Auror."

"A good one," I mumbled, growing very sleepy. "I specialized in interrogations…"

"Torture?"

Severus' single word question roused me and I lifted my head, awake.

"At times," I answered.

Severus studied my face, and I wondered what he saw there.

"And then you stopped being an Auror," he said, his voice like the softest velvet running along my face to my ears to my brain, and downward. I sighed, remembering to breathe. I nodded.

"The Ministry restructured itself, sometimes for the better, sometimes not…"

Conversation died after my last word, and to occupy myself, I drank my tea. The awkwardness of the morning, waking in his arms, was still present. I felt a blush begin to creep up my chest, but with a deep drink of hot tea, it receded.

"We need to know what we are doing here," I said, steering conversation back to what we had learned from the portraits.

Severus nodded, his inky hair falling into his face. "I wish I knew more, as I wish many things," he said in soft sigh.

"For your memories?"

"No, I feel lighter without them," his deep voice intoned, and I grinned.

"How do you know that you won't need them?" I teased, as much as I felt I could tease Severus Snape.

However, as I watched Severus' eyes shift to my hands resting on the table, I felt a change in his demeanor.

"I am alive, so far, without them. And, I am sure that if I would need them, I would find a way to retrieve them. In the meanwhile, I have other matters to consider.

I am more concerned as to why I was saved, surely there was a reason."

His hand moved to touch the faint scars on his throat. It was a gently motion, but as he touched the skin, I could see the beginning of a grimace on his brow. He had been saved even before the Knights of Walpurgis had become a matter in the forefront of our minds.

I sat back in the chair, pulling my arms from the table. I felt stiff after returning from Malfoy Manor and the longer I sat, the sooner I knew I would begin to feel the strain in my muscles. It had been far too long since I had moved so quickly…

"There is a conspiracy of a sort, one that includes us. Though we only have an inkling as to the nature of the conspiracy, it is unique because it includes us…" I whispered.

"But it is obvious that I was to come here, see you and Potter. Just as Goyle was sent… The remnants of the Order were to be contacted because they were trusted. One can assume that the Knights of Walpurgis possibly wish to ally with the remnants of the Order—to oppose whatever or whoever is to come."

Severus was right. None of the original Knights mentioned by the portraits was part of the Order of the Phoenix. Aberforth and Horace were sympathetic but were not members. Perpetua Fancourt was not a member…

"And if the portraits of Malfoy and Black are correct, we need to know who is orchestrating the agents of your Department of Intelligence to move," Severus finished.

I nodded. I wondered if I could speak to Percy in a non-official capacity about his 'men in black.' First, however, Aberforth Dumbledore and Horace Slughorn needed to be found. I glanced to Severus who had risen and was adding tea to another pot on the sideboard.

Of the living Knights, it had to have been Horace Slughorn, Aberforth Dumbledore, or Perpetua Fancourt who had saved Severus and sent him to Grimmauld Place. I had ruled out Horace, and I knew that Perpetua Fancourt had no part in the War. That left only Aberforth Dumbledore.

It was possible that Aberforth could have removed Severus from the Shrieking Shack. I knew that Aberforth, despite his reputation, was a secretive man. The events leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts had been proof of that.

The sound of the kettle setting upon the table startled me, as Severus sat down. I wondered why he had not used magic to make a fresh kettle of tea.

"Why did you kiss me?"

I blinked at him as he poured tea into my cup. Of all the questions…

"I thought…" I started. "For over a decade, you were dead. To see you again was a shock."

It a lame answer, I knew, but it was the best I could muster after such an abrupt question.

"So you kissed me out of shock? A strange reaction…"

He was smirking at me, his hands folded on the tabletop. I had to look away.

"For you to die… It was a true loss."

"To you?"

There was a hint of amusement in his voice where there had been sarcasm and derision before. I still could not look at him.

"To us all. After the truth about your role was fully understood… You were a sacrifice, a diversion, and from my point of view, it was unfair. We lost so many—you were the greatest loss," I answered, feeling the conviction in my words.

"You pity me?"

I huffed and met his eyes. It was a ridiculous question, one that sought some sort of placation.

"No, never pity. You, from what I knew of you and your life, were not pitiable. Unfortunate, but not pitiful…"

Severus blinked and the smirk faded. Already, I could see him retreat into himself without making a move or speaking a word. He was weighing my words.

"You know so much about me, and I cannot remember you at all. It seems that we will be…"

I had tuned out as I felt a change in the air between us. There was a ripple of energy, and I realized that I was feeling a precursory wave of magic. It was at that moment, the Floo activated.

Harry Potter's head floated into view, and I moved, as Severus did to the fireplace.

"Hermione?" Harry's disembodied head asked.

I frowned. It was very late, and Harry was to be at the Burrow, in bed with his wife…

"I'm here," I said, kneeling so that I was face to face with the green flame apparition of Harry's head.

Harry saw me, and then glanced to my left to where Severus knelt, his bare shoulder brushing mine.

"Cannot talk long…" Harry started. "I don't know if anyone might be watching the Burrow, but I had to tell you…"

He voice seemed very distant although his visage was clear. It was if he were whispering.

"Horace Slughorn has been found…"

I narrowed my eyes, as the Floo connection seemed to break up like static over a Muggle telephone line.

"…in Cornwall."

"Potter, terminate the call," Severus snarled.

Harry's eyes widened and then he glanced up as if to stare up the chimney and suddenly, in a flash of green, the call was cut. A blast of soot and ash made me cough and wave at the air. Already, Severus was on his feet pacing, rubbing his chin.

I rose, wiping at a piece of ash under my nose.

"What is it?" I asked.

"The Floo at the Burrow is being monitored," Severus grumbled, continuing to pace anxiously.

"But Horace has been found…" I started.

"Dead, he's dead."

What little bit of hope I felt deflated. The interference had made Harry's words incomprehensible. Had I missed Harry saying 'dead?'

The man who had inquired at the Three Broomsticks, or someone associated, had found Horace. In Cornwall? I was missing something, something that my exhausted mind would not let me fathom. No matter how I tried to recall the elusive thought, it was just outside my reach.

"Nothing we can do now," I heard Severus mutter as his pacing began to slow. "Nothing until the morning, nothing after sleep…"

He stopped before me, staring down his long, crooked nose at me. I suddenly felt twelve years old.

"Get some rest, Miss Granger."

I wondered if he did remember who I was at that moment. I blinked up at him, as he seemed to tower over me, just as he had in Potions class, judging the colour of my potion, his nostrils flaring to smell the potion.

He grasped my arms and in his crushing grasp, I was awake.

"A hot bath and bed," he said, his voice authoritative, demanding obedience. "No more struggling to figure out every mystery, not now…"

Did we have time? Horace was dead; a Knight of Walpurgis was dead.


	7. VII

**VII**

I had left the bedroom door open. I was lying on Harry and Ginny's bed while Severus slept in Sirius' old room down the hall. I had bathed and lay atop the sheets in another one of Ron's old tee shirts, one I had liberated from his everyday wear.

I brushed a hand over my eyes, not wanting to think of the mess that had been my relationship with Ron. I had a million more things I could think about, and all of them were stressful. My job, or lack of job, Severus, the Knights of Walpurgis, the portraits' words, the mysterious 'men in black,' and now the possibility that Horace Slughorn was dead.

As I lay staring up at the ceiling, I started thinking about the legend of Merlin.

My mother had read me the tales, a child's adaptation of Malory's 'Le Morte d'Arthur.' She had also read me other tales, gathered from different sources about Merlin's deeds, of his counsel to King Arthur and his eventual imprisonment by Viviane or Nimue in other cases. I liked the tales, not just of Merlin, but also of all the famous characters in Arthurian Legend.

As I grew up, and went to Hogwarts, I read more accounts of Merlin. On the back of a Chocolate Frog card, I remembered that Merlin supposedly believed that wizards should help Muggles, and thus the Order of Merlin was founded. It was not long into my occasional studies of famous wizards that I learned that Merlin had no hand in creating the 'Order,' but Helga Hufflepuff. I had considered writing a letter to the creators of the Chocolate Frog cards to revise the text on Merlin's card, and had promptly forgotten in lieu of me being petrified in Second Year.

I smirked to the ceiling; Severus had mentioned that Helga Hufflepuff had been part of Knights—Order of Merlin. I then wondered about Morgan le Fey, Merlin's supposed enemy. The portraits had not mentioned her, and again I wondered if the legends were correct.

What I knew of Merlin as a child was repeated in Magical history books in the Library of Hogwarts. Supposedly born of a mortal woman and an incubus, Merlin was an unusual wizard. Every book recorded Merlin as a clever wizard, the 'Prince of Enchanters' as the Famous Wizards card said. There was not a dark deed recorded, no mention of Merlin's true potential, but there was plenty of mention of his imprisonment. Some texts said that Merlin's prison was a cave, others said a rock, and yet another said it was an invisible tower.

For centuries, Muggle and wizard alike searched for some proof to the Arthurian legends, the Lady of the Lake, and Merlin. Very little was ascertained. Legend remained legend.

However, as the portraits of Abraxas Malfoy and Arcturus Black had said, to every legend, there is an ounce of truth.

I rolled to my side on the bed, facing away from the empty doorway.

For Merlin to be legend, he surely had to be a remarkable wizard. The popularity of the Arthurian tales was world reaching. Merlin, in particular, had acted a model for every wizard in Muggle fiction and media. In many ways, the Muggle conception of Merlin was very much like Albus Dumbledore. I frowned. Long white beard, keen eyes, a kind mien, and a fair mind… For some reason, I doubted Merlin looked like all the representations Muggles had of him.

If Merlin was a threat, and imprisoned because he was becoming too powerful, what would it mean if he were somehow set free? If Merlin were so powerful, why would anyone want to set him free?

I could not understand so much, not yet. All I did know and understand for certain was that I was embroiled in something new, something dark.

* * *

I did not dream of the large apple tree and the golden apples or my mother. Instead, I had been in the graveyard, standing just an arm's reach from the yew tree. I did not want to be there again, I did not want to have to slip my hand inside the crack in the trunk, but I did.

I found a man in the tree, and grasping his exposed hand, I began to pull. As I pulled, I could hear the man screaming in the tree, his face still hidden by the gnarled wood. I wanted to reassure the man, tell him that I would free him, but his screams grew louder, agonized.

It was then I woke, realizing that the screams were not just in my dream, but also in my waking world.

I rose from the bed, and grabbing my wand, I ran. It was my turn to kick open the door to Sirius' old bedroom to find a thrashing Severus Snape on the narrow bed. I Charmed the candles on the wall sconces to light before I approached. When I stood just next to the bed, my hand reaching out to touch Severus' pale shoulder, a hand grasped my wrist.

My wand clattered to the floor as Severus pulled me to him. He had sat up in the bed, and was now embracing me. My arms wrapped about him naturally as he buried his face into my breasts, gasping, his screaming dissolving into gasps. He was dressed in only his trousers, and as my fingers swept down his bare back, I felt scars and rough skin.

I surprised myself by making a cooing sound, as if to soothe a child. I had soothed little Albus several times when I had stayed at Grimmauld place, Sirius' old room just next to the boy's shared room.

My fingers moved away from his back, the muscles trembling under the pads of my fingers, until I brushed at his long, oily hair. His embrace was crushing, and I wondered if he were awake as he rubbed his face between my breasts. I continued to coo a soft and improvised melody, as his whimpers turned to deep inhales.

It was odd to hold my former Potions Professor, and then I realised that in appearances, he was not so much older than I was. Severus Snape, at the Battle of Hogwarts, had been thirty-eight years old. In September, I would be thirty-one. I sighed as he turned his face so that his cheek rested against the inner slope of my right breast.

"What did you dream?" I asked softly, just as Severus had asked me before.

"What I have been dreaming for so long," he answered, in a gentle purr as my hands began petting his hair, just as I would have pet my old familiar if Crookshanks were still alive. "It was the bad dream this time."

Severus sounded almost childlike as he said this, and I pushed him again.

"What did you dream?"

Severus wiped his long nose into my shirt, the tip brushing against my hard nipple. I took in a quick breath at the contact, and then relaxed. The motion had not been intentional.

"Someone was pulling me," he whispered against my breast.

I frowned, glancing down at the dark crown of greasy hair. "What?" I asked in a whisper.

"Someone was pulling my arm, and it hurt…"

I could see the yew tree in my mind's eye, and the long, pale man's arm, my hand barely able to wrap around the girth of the wrist. I could see the black hair along the arm and the wiry muscle of the upper arm.

It was impossible…

"I could taste sap, I always taste sap."

My eyes moved from his head down his pale back. In the candlelight, the old scars were silver, but there were other scars that were new, still pink, and rough. The scars ran down his back in areas of tight vertical rows. Just above the waist band of his trousers was a circular scar, and I was reminded of wood grain, the circular scar a gnarl in wood grain.

I swallowed thickly. My dream was just a dream. It was just symbolic representation of waking stress. Wasn't it?

Severus' face lifted, his hooked nose brushing along my chest to my collarbone. He was inhaling my scent, still holding me firmly against his chest. When his nose brushed against my throat, under my hair, I had to take a breath. It had been years since I was so close to a man.

No, that was not true. I had awoken in Severus Snape's arms the morning before.

Automatically, the blush began to creep up from my chest. I struggled free, standing next to the bed. Severus Snape stared at me as if realising I was so close to him for the first time. I snatched my wand from the floor and took a step back. He blinked at me and then glanced down to his trousers, I followed his gaze.

The blush made it to my face and my mouth was dry. I did not want to look at the bulge in his trousers; I did not want to look at his bare chest or the scars, or the way his long, lithe body slouched to reveal the scars on his back. I did not want to look at the confusion and then anger in his eyes.

"Get out," he growled, and I did not need to be told twice.

I was stalking down the hall to my borrowed room within a blink of an eye. When I entered the bedroom, I slowly shut the door behind me. Haphazardly tossing my wand on the bedside table, I fell onto the bed face first, curling up in the middle of the bed, slipping my bare legs under the hem of the oversized tee shirt.

I did not want to think about how my breasts still were warm from Severus' face, or how my right nipple tingled from his touch. I did not touch my inner thighs though I rubbed them together slowly under the tee shirt. I knew that it was ridiculous of me to be aroused by a mere embrace, but I had little control over my own body. In the past twenty-four hours, I had gone through a wide range of emotions, and the first, upon waking, had been arousal.

I supposed it was only natural to be aroused by such an intimate touch. I had not been touched in six years. Six years. I snorted to myself. I was starved for touch. I had enjoyed sex; I had enjoyed being touched, even though it had been Ron who touched me. I wished I had tried to date after Ron, I wished I had learned to differentiate attachment from sex. I wished I had learned to be able to, metaphorically, 'scratch an itch,' and maybe then I would not be rubbing my thighs together from simply being held and touched by Severus Snape—a man, who by all accounts, was dead.

It could not be simple, could it?

No, I sighed using my right arm as a pillow, my life could never be simple as a general rule. The worst part, I thought, was Severus was now angry with me. As if things could not be more awkward.

The dream, however, was what made me slip my legs from under my tee shirt and move to sit on the edge of the bed. It could not be a coincidence that I had been dreaming of pulling a man out of the yew tree while Severus dreamt of being pulled.

Grabbing my wand from where I had tossed it, I exited the bedroom, trying not to make a noise. I padded down the hall to the broken door and peeked inside.

The candles were extinguished, and on the bed, Severus lay with his back to me. Even in the dim light coming through the window, I could see the scars on his pale back. I could even see the bumps of his spine, disappearing into the seat of his trousers. His hair fell over the side of the bed in greasy tangles, but as I began to pull away from door, assuming he was asleep by the way his ribs rose and fell, Severus made a soft noise.

It was not a sigh or a whimper, but a soft moan.

His arm left arm was moving slowly, almost too slowly for me to notice at first, and I realized then what he was doing.

I stepped back from the door as he moaned again. I leaned back against the wall next to the open door, closing my eyes as I listened. The sound of flesh being manipulated filled my ears, and his moan through tight lips turning into a whimper.

I felt ill, not because Severus Snape was masturbating, but because I could still see the bulge in his trousers behind my eyelids. I closed my eyes, hearing that moisture was added to his movement, a sticky sound that made my stomach twist. I wished I could run back to my room, but I did not trust my legs. I wished he would finish and let me escape.

Part of me wanted to touch myself through my knickers, but I could not will myself to move as I heard his breathing begin to hitch. The only part of my body that did move, and in truth, had not stopped moving, had been my thighs. I heard his moan sound again, louder than before.

I let my head fall back against the wall, and I gritted my teeth. He came with a whimper and a gasp, and I was suddenly free as if I had been under a spell. I heard him roll on the bed and reach for his wand, to Vanish the evidence, I imagined. It was then that I started to walk, a hand against the wall supporting me as I moved back to my own room.

I locked the door and fell upon the bed, my thighs sticky, my knickers damp. I did not touch myself. I felt sick and high all at the same time. It had been torture to hear him, not caring if the door was open.

I wanted release.

I wanted Severus Snape, and it seemed so wrong.

* * *

Severus Snape was in no way handsome, and as I entered the kitchen the next morning, he looked a step away from death. In fact, he looked more as I remembered from school. He was paler, his face more gaunt, and for the first time since he arrived at Grimmauld Place, he wore something different from the black leather jerkin and black trousers. The trousers were the same, but he wore a black tee shirt that was a size too small, making him appear too thin. I wondered if the tee shirt had come from the bureau in Sirius' old room—perhaps something Ron had left behind years ago.

He did not greet me as I attended to making my own breakfast, chewing on a bit of sausage from an elf-prepared meal. I sat down with a fried egg, toast, and a dollop of jam. I ignored his pointed gaze as I ate.

Finally, as if deciding that information was more important than being angry with me, Severus spoke.

"Potter will be here after breakfast," he announced in a sneer.

I chanced a look at Severus. "You spoke to him?"

"While you were dressing," he answered. "He called from the Ministry."

I had not slept, and had heard Severus rise and go down into the house at about six in the morning. With the Burrow's Floo being watched, Harry had called from the Ministry, I supposed.

I nibbled on a piece of toast, still aware of Severus' gaze. I sighed.

"Deride me all you want," I muttered.

"Pardon?"

My eyes bore into his.

"I am accustomed to living alone, sir. When I slipped into bed with you, I was half asleep. Last night, I only returned the favour by kicking in the door to see if you were being murdered in your sleep. If I have somehow offended you, I apologise," I said gruffly, dropping my toast to my plate.

Severus gaped for a moment and then closed his mouth. He quickly glanced away, colour returning to his face in pink spots on his cheeks. I, in turn, blushed as well, still hearing his soft moans in my ears.

I wanted him to speak. I wanted him to say something in retort to my apology, but he said nothing and finished his breakfast. I continued eating, preoccupied and lost in half formed thoughts.

The Floo activated as I took my dirty place down to the scullery to add to the sink for Kreacher to tend to later. From the scullery step leading up to the kitchen, I watched as Harry stepped out of the Floo, brushing ash from his red Auror robes. From the expression on his face, I knew he was angry.

"I just came from Cornwall," he started, addressing Severus. As I entered the kitchen, his emerald eyes flashed to me. "Slughorn is dead, as I was trying to tell you both last night."

The initial surprise had waned. However, the implications of Slughorn's death loomed.

"How?" I ventured.

Harry collapsed into the chair I had vacated, rubbing his face roughly. I then realized that Harry must have been in the field after he had tried to Floo call the night before.

"We are still trying to determine the exact cause."

Severus met my eye.

"Where was he found, exactly?" Severus drawled, his voiced smooth and calm.

"Portleven, in the harbour."

I frowned. "He was in the sea?"

Harry nodded. "Muggle Police found him first, it was a coincidence that the Ministry came to be involved."

Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, thoughtfully. Severus pushed his empty place aside to lean toward the table, about to open his mouth to ask for more details. Harry, however, continued.

"Petroc Parkinson identified Slughorn—Parkinson is part of the town council…"

"How long ago?" Severus urged.

Harry closed his eyes, "Just last night, the Muggles found the body yesterday afternoon."

"About the time we were at Malfoy Manor…" I whispered to myself.

Harry opened his brilliant eyes to stare at my face and then nodded slowly. "The Ministry removed the body, Obliviators should be finishing with Muggles involved, and I need to go back to finish questioning the Parkinsons."

I blinked. When had the Parkinsons, one of the more biased Pure-blood families, decided to become part of a Muggle town council? I had no idea where the Parkinsons lived and wondered if Portleven had any 'magical' affiliations.

Harry rose from the kitchen table, moving tiredly to the Floo. "I'll call if I learn anything more. In the meantime, you should mention this to…"

"Greg and the portraits, yes, we'll do that now, Harry," I said softly, my eyes moving again to Severus who had risen as Harry had.

Harry tried to smile to me, but it came across as a weak attempt. Instead, he nodded, and Flooed away in a flash of green light.

I stood in the kitchen, lost. If Horace was dead, that meant of there were only seven of what should have been eight knights. What was the motive? What was the cause? What was Slughorn doing in Cornwall? Where was Aberforth Dumbledore? I added those questions to my growing mental list.

* * *

"He was killed for what he knew," Abraxas grumbled.

Both portraits were upset, red pigment bleeding into the contour of their painted faces. Arcturus was too agitated to speak, and his small portrait seemed like a cage for a large cat as Arcturus paced in the mysterious space of the painting.

"And what did Horace know?" Severus asked, standing before the paintings propped up against the wall below the Black Family tapestry. Severus had his arms crossed before him as if to hug himself. I leaned against the wall near the door, hand shoved into the pockets of my dragon hide trousers.

"Specifically? One may never know, but surely, he could only have divulged the true nature of the Knights of Walpurgis. Of course, Horace would have died before speaking anything about the Knights…"

"He did die," I sighed out.

Abraxas Malfoy said nothing, but seemed to consider the simplicity of my words.

"Then he divulged nothing. He was killed because he would not speak?" Abraxas asked to himself, rambling. "It is a possibility."

I turned my head away and sighed. "Who does know something? Is there not a 'leader' of this secret society?"

In answer, Arcturus spoke, managing to gain control of his two-dimensional self. "Astute question, and yes, there is. There is no modern title for the one who leads, in ancient times, there was the druid, the bard, and the vates."

The three classes of priesthood in the ancient practices, what some called the 'Old Ways.' The druid was a title designating scholarship and law. The bard was a title for that poet-scholar, a historian. The vates was the seer, the one who committed the sacrifices under the purview of the druid. I had read of these ancient beliefs in Professor Binns' History of Magic course, and I remembered that I was one of perhaps two students awake for the lecture.

"Of the eight, three would keep the Order of Merlin as one; the druid was head, the vates, then the bard… Now, only the 'druid,' the head of the Order remains, the one who protects the secret, the one who knows the location of Merlin's prison."

"Why only the one?" Severus asked.

Why indeed? If the 'druid' were killed, the secret would be lost.

"Security. That is why you must find Aberforth. He is the head, the druid," Abraxas muttered.

"Yes, and with the loss of Horace, the clues as to where Aberforth might be—are gone," Arcturus continued.

The portraits fell silent as Severus began to pace slowly before them. I was sure he was thinking along the same paths of thought I was. Darkness was billowing up and looming near us now, and everything from Severus appearing at Grimmauld Place, Greg Goyle, the portraits, all of it was becoming real to me. A true threat.

The idea of Merlin and secret societies was still hard to accept as some reality staring us in the face. Standing in the front room of Grimmauld Place, dust coating everything, I felt so removed from even what I knew to be real.

"Find Aberforth. Regroup," Severus muttered. "We should have Goyle search for Fancourt as well."

The portraits nodded in agreement, I however, slipped from the room. I could hear Severus talking to the portraits as I walked up the stairs and into the upper stories of the house.

I needed information, something from a different perspective. When I reached Harry and Ginny's room, I glanced to the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was near lunchtime. Tossing my carpetbag on the bed, I began pulling out clothes from the magicked depths.

Several minutes later, a voice asked: "Where are you going?"

I paused along the narrow corridor leading to the front door. Severus had stepped into the doorway of the front room, his hands on his narrow hips. If he were wearing his old teaching robes, I was sure he would seem quite imposing. As it was, his pale arms akimbo made the tight tee shirt stretch over his chest and accentuate the muscles underneath. Severus looked more like a man than a Potions Master.

"I hope to be able to 'run into' someone in Whitehall," I said, smoothing a wrinkle in my knee-length gray skirt.

I had worn the suit perhaps twice, once to Albus' naming ceremony and once on one of the last dates I had with Ron—six years before. It was a flattering outfit with grey bolero jacket over a lavender silk blouse with ruffles down the breast. The skirt had wide pleats and on my feet, I wore two and half inch high heels of matching lavender patent leather. I wore my hair down, glossed and waved, and on my face, I wore light makeup. I remembered to mentally thank Ginny for reminding me of how to use beauty Charms. Parvati and Lavender had tried to teach me years ago, but I had forgotten.

Severus studied me, his face passive. His eyes, however, seemed to glow. I had seen the glow, or sparkle, several times, but as his eyes traced my bare legs, I tried to repress a shiver. His gaze was like the caress of a child who knew he should not be touching the 'art.'

"Your wand?" he asked in a silky drawl.

I pulled up the left side of my jacket, revealing my chest holster, altered to be hidden under the grey fabric. I smirked and started to the door again, and once again, Severus' voice stopped me.

"You shouldn't go alone," he said to my back.

I smiled to the back of the front door. "I'll be fine."

I heard Severus walk over the rug in the corridor and before I could make it to the door, a large hand had a tight hold on my upper left arm. I froze, but Severus pulled me and suddenly my back was held against a warm chest.

"It may not be safe…" he began.

I sighed. "The only thing anyone would know is that I recorded the notes mentioning…"

"We did not make any effort to hide ourselves at the Manor," he growled.

I pursed my lips. "There was too much smoke."

"How do you know? How could you know that one of them did not see you, or me, for that matter?"

His voice was gruff, rumbling against my back. I pulled away, gently.

"It is a chance we will have to take."


	8. VIII

**VIII**  
  
It had seemed like an age since I had seen my friend, when in fact it had only been a few days. When I saw Percy, I honestly hoped that I was not placing him in any sort of danger or trouble with the Ministry. The need for information was far too important however.  
  
Percy Weasley balked at the sight of me and dropped his fork onto his plate in the Thai restaurant on Cockspur Street. There were Muggles all around, but they took no notice at Percy’s gaping mouth and the splatter of sauce on his impeccable sky blue tie.   
  
He sat alone, near the front windows, and after convincing the host I was there to ‘meet a friend,’ I was allowed in the dining area. I slipped into the seat across the table and smiled coyly. Percy, after a long moment, began blotting at the sauce on his tie with a napkin, his pale eyes moving about the restaurant. I knew that he wished he could draw his wand and Charm the stain away.  
  
“Hermione,” he gasped in half surprise, half greeting.  
  
I smiled as a waiter came by almost immediately upon my sitting down and set a glass of water down before me. I waved the waiter away when I expressed I had no interest in lunch.  
  
“Where in Merlin’s name have you been?” Percy asked in an agitated whisper, pushing his plate aside to lean over the table slightly.  
  
I winced at his mention of Merlin, surprising myself. I tried to continue smiling.  
  
“I decided to take some time off…”  
  
“You should have gone with Hestia for reassignment,” Percy scolded, throwing his napkin up from his lap to the side of his plate.  
  
I shrugged. “It isn’t that important right now…” I trailed.  
  
Percy frowned. “What are you doing with yourself then? After being so angry that your department was dissolved…”  
  
“Just some time off, that’s all. I thought I might do some traveling,” I said softly. “But, there was something I was going to ask you, something Harry mentioned…”  
  
“If it is Ministry business, you know that I cannot…”  
  
I raised a hand, “I know, if I’m not currently or actively employed, there is not much you can tell me, but Perce…” I cooed, using the name I called him when it meant that I had something personal and important to say or ask. “I’m just concerned. Harry told me Malfoy Manor was attacked and that one of your agents was killed.”  
  
Percy’s eyes hardened. “Harry should not have told you about that.”  
  
I sighed. “Don’t be cross with Harry. He only mentioned it because I told him about your agents clearing out my office—this is between us, Perce. I’m worried…about you.”  
  
Percy blinked and turned his sapphire eyes to his half eaten lunch.  
  
“Do not mention this to anyone, Hermione,” he started, crossing his arms before his chest. “Not Potter, no one.”  
  
I nodded, crossing my legs under the table nervously.  
  
“I had to order a raid on Malfoy Manor.”  
  
I blinked, but held my tongue.  
  
“An order came down to confiscate an item from Malfoy Manor. Why the order did not go to the MLE, I haven’t the foggiest. What’s more, my department has been charged in investigating the theft of another item from the Lestrange House, again, a job for the MLE.  
  
I signed the papers to confiscate the item from Malfoy Manor, but somehow, the orders were lost, misplaced, forgotten, and my men went in without any documentation.”  
  
I said nothing, but straightened.  
  
“And now, one of my men is dead. As much as I want to blame Malfoy, I cannot.”  
  
Percy fell silent. I studied his face. His brow was furrowed; he was upset, just as Harry had said, however there was something about his eyes that made me feel as if Percy were keeping something from me, something important. I had not been some simple interrogator in my Auror years…  
  
A small upwelling of distrust began in my mind. Percy was my friend, but so many things were not adding up. Percy was fastidious in everything he did; he was strict with those in his department. In many ways, Percy was a well-mannered tyrant. I had been fortunate working in his department, simply not because I was his friend, but because I was just as meticulous about my work. And because of those qualities in Percy Weasley, it was hard for me to simply believe that someone outside his reach and department were manipulating the Department of Intelligence. Percy was a control freak when it came to his status as Head. Thus, the distrust began to grow.  
  
“I believe that the Office of the Minister is trying to place some of the responsibility of the MLE on my department. You would know how stretched thin the MLE can be at times…”  
  
I nodded. However, I began watching how Percy’s mouth seemed to tighten. He was holding something back, something he did not want me to know.  
  
“I’m afraid that the Office of the Minister will try to consolidate the Department of Intelligence, combining with the MLE…”  
  
I had begun to tune out. I watched Percy’s hands as they began to move as he spoke. Percy had always had the habit of moving his hands as he spoke when he was nervous. All I could think was: something was off. His gesticulations were too obvious; he did not realise I could tell that he was holding something back when he spoke to me.  
  
Interrogation can be approached many ways. Suggestibility, deception, the Reid technique which employs a combination of techniques but reads much into body language, and, as a last resort, torture. Three were other lesser techniques, most employed by American law enforcement—good cop/bad cop, empathetic interrogation, and Reid… As I sat across from Percy, I knew I would have to change his line of thought, to determine his reaction and the nature of the information he was withholding.  
  
“I heard that Horace Slughorn was found…”  
  
Percy’s face turned stony, and then I knew.  
  
“I heard this morning,” he said coolly.  
  
I had not said ‘dead.’  
  
Percy’s eyes dulled, his mouth tightening in the corners. His hands did not move when he spoke, and I knew—Percy knew something about Slughorn.  
  
Percy spoke about trivial matters from that point on, reminding me that despite my self-imposed vacation and seemingly endless free time, he still had a job to get back to at the Ministry. I kept my talk small, all the while my brain working.  
  
The ‘item’ to be confiscated surely was Abraxas Malfoy’s portrait, just as the ‘theft’ from the Lestrange House had been Arcturus Black’s portrait. Percy knew what was needed by whomever it was in the Ministry that was seeking out information on the Knights of Walpurgis. And now with Horace…  
  
“I was wondering if you wanted to go to the National Gallery next week, there’s a Caravaggio show opening, I think it is combination of traveling exhibition and what the National Gallery…”  
  
“I don’t know, Perce, I should probably get ready for whatever assignment I get when I go back to the Ministry,” I said sheepishly, a blatant lie. I did not intend to go back to the M of M.  
  
Percy’s face softened in disappointment. “Then at least dinner sometime?”  
  
I smiled, trying not to appear disquieted. “Of course.”

* * *

  
  
  
My world seemed to rotating too fast on its axis. I Flooed from the Leaky Cauldron back to Grimmauld Place, but as soon as I stepped out to find Severus at the kitchen table reading a Daily Prophet, the klaxon sounded.  
  
The klaxon was connected to the protections of Grimmauld Place, and this particular klaxon alerted me that someone was at the front door of the house. Distantly, from Kreacher’s cellar, I could hear Walburga screeching.  
  
I began to move, but by some feat, Severus moved before I could. He streaked from the kitchen and up the steps to the front corridor. I had only managed to make it up the kitchen stairs when the door was opened and light streamed into the house. Heavy footfalls sounded even as the klaxon, a terrible magical ringing, ended.  
  
“Move Granger!” a raspy voice hissed in the dark as the door was slammed shut.  
  
I nearly fell down the steps and into the kitchen as Greg Goyle pushed by me. I opened my mouth to question as he moved down into the scullery, Severus on his heels.  
  
I lingered in the door leading down into the scullery, watching. Greg placed what seemed to be a bundle of rags upon the scullery table, stepping back as Severus stepped in.  
  
“Kreacher!” Severus called.  
  
The elf appeared with a low pop, and Severus began barking orders as he drew his wand.  
Potions, bandages, a basin of warm water…  
  
I shifted, slipping out of my heels, kicking them aside on the kitchen floor. Greg sank onto a stool near the sink, and it was then I began to understand what I was seeing.  
  
Greg was shirtless, and his wide hairy barrel chest was black with blood and grime. His face was set, and cuts adorned his face. Gashes adorned his scalp and his shoulders. He clutched his wand in bloody, swollen fingers. By all appearances, Greg had been fighting with his fists and his wand.  
  
“Hermione, see to Goyle,” Severus hissed as Kreacher returned with everything Severus had ordered, everything levitating next to the scullery table in easy reach.  
  
I snapped to attention and moved, drawing my wand. I did not have time to see what Severus was fussing over, and moved to Greg who was breathing heavily, strained. Greg’s face seemed to soften as his chestnut brown eyes noticed and recognized me.  
  
“What happened?” Severus snarled.  
  
Greg licked his lips and tried to take a proper breath. I started, casting a Cleansing Charm over him, finding that not all of the blood on his large, hairy body was his. I then began casting Healing Charms on the worst of the cuts. I frowned, as the cuts did not heal well, indicating that some hex or curse had caused them.  
  
“Ambushed…” he gasped.   
  
Severus did not turn, as he too was casting Healing Charms on what I realized to be a person laying on the scullery table.  
  
I healed Greg the best I could, healing the gashes and cuts as well as the cracked bones in his fists. The bruises about his ribs were alleviated, but I knew that Greg would have to rest. When I stepped back, I could see that he could breathe better, and then he began explaining.  
  
“I was on the platform, on my way to work, when in the back of the platform, some people started screaming. I could feel it…magic. And then, there she was, pushing through the Muggles, running the best she could, straight at me. I don’t think she knew I was there, she seemed surprised…”  
  
I turned to the figure on the table. Severus had Vanished most of the rags so that a short, old woman lay upon the table in only what looked to be a dingy full slip. Her face was bruised and bloody; as was the slip she wore. Her hair was a mess of dull grey curls, falling over the end of the table and the tips touching the floor.  
  
Perpetua Fancourt was nearly dead, and as Severus worked, I wondered if I should call Ginny.  
  
“She was being chased by men, and they did not care that there were Muggles around. They killed a few, I know. They blasted into the crowd, Muggles were pushed onto the tracks—it was chaos.  
  
She grabbed a hold me of me and I knew she was hurt. I Apparated.”  
  
I let my eyes drop to the scullery floor, but Greg continued.  
  
“I suppose there was a tracking spell on me, ‘cause just before I went, I felt something hit me in the back.  
  
I Apparated to my flat, a man in black was right behind. The flat was demolished. I Apparated to Hogsmeade, just in the middle of High Street, he followed me. He got off a few hexes, and I took most of them, but she…”  
  
Greg’s mournful eyes moved to the unmoving figure of Perpetua Fancourt.  
  
“She got a few…”  
  
Greg rubbed his face with the back of his hand, still clutching his wand.  
  
“I went again, this time to the countryside, I don’t know where. I tore off my jacket and shirt and went again. He did not follow.”  
  
I raised my eyes. “How many times did you Apparate, Greg?”  
  
“About twenty. I was afraid he’d find me…”  
  
“Who was he?” I asked.  
  
Greg shook his large head. “Never saw him before in my life. He and the others I saw on the platform—they were wearing black Ministry robes.”  
  
I gritted my teeth as Severus finished his healing spells. The woman on the table seemed to have some of her colour back and was breathing easier. Greg rose from the stool and moved to the opposite side of the table from Severus.  
  
“She’s Perpetua Fancourt,” Greg said simply. “I hadn’t even started looking for her when she found me…”  
  
Greg gazed sadly at the woman, and as I watched, I was surprised to see emotion in Greg’s face, as if the woman were someone dear.  
  
“How bad is she?” Greg asked Severus then.  
  
Severus paused before speaking, a phial of potion poised to pour into the woman’s mouth.  
  
“Her age is against her, but I’m sure with time and rest, she’ll be fine,” Severus said in a near whisper as his large hand cradled the back of the woman’s head and he poured the liquid slowly between her lips.  
  
Perpetua Fancourt coughed and spluttered, but swallowed the potion as Greg’s hand moved to help her drink. I felt useless, watching the two men. With a grimace, I moved into the kitchen and called for Kreacher.  
  
“Surely, there is a room somewhere in the house where we can let this woman rest?” I asked the elf.  
  
Kreacher grunted. I took the grunt as an affirmative.  
  
“Prepare it. Mr. Goyle will be staying as well…”  
  
I stood in the kitchen staring at the floor.  
  
Horace Slughorn was dead and Perpetua Fancourt targeted. I had a sinking feeling as to the welfare of Aberforth Dumbledore.  


* * *

  
  
We sat on Conjured couches in the front room. I had affixed the portraits to the wall next to the Black Family tapestry. On one leather chesterfield, I sat next to Greg, facing the door, and on the other, facing the wall was Severus and Harry.  
  
Upstairs, in a prepared bedroom, Perpetua Fancourt slept after Severus had healed her to the best of his ability. Kreacher kept check on the sleeping woman, and was instructed to come to the front room if she should wake.  
  
It was late. Harry was exhausted, as was Greg, who both lounged on the couches, their eyes heavy. We had spoken with the portraits that stared down at us, deep in thought. Greg had elaborated on how he came to bring one of the Knights of Walpurgis to Grimmauld Place. I had added what little I had learned from Percy Weasley, including my observations. Harry had yet to add anything about the circumstances to Horace’s death.  
  
“Murder, that is what the Ministry will rule,” was all Harry had said.  
  
There was too much to think about.  
  
“Someone from St. Mungo’s will perform an autopsy in the morning. We’ll know for sure then,” Harry said, breaking the silence of the room. “There were no witnesses to the event, nothing that would implicate anyone responsible.”  
  
“Would it be a stretch to assume that it is the same people who killed the Muggles in Glasgow?” Greg asked.  
  
Severus had found something for Greg to wear in a drawer in Sirius’ old room, an oversized Muggle shirt, and a grey button down shirt that had once been white. I figured it was something Sirius had left behind.  
  
“’Men in black,’ or so Hermione has been calling the agents of the Department of Intelligence,” Severus corrected.  
  
I was slightly taken aback by Severus’ voice and his utterance of my name. I glanced to him and how his elbow rested upon the arm of the couch, supporting his head and the curtain of oily, black hair.  
  
“It is a definite possibility,” I conceded. “It could not be a coincidence that these ‘agents’ attacked Malfoy Manor, then Greg and Fancourt…”  
  
“How many of these ‘agents’ are there?” Greg asked, turning to me.  
  
I shook my head. “I was never privy to that sort of information. Most of the ‘agents’ were people Percy recruited personally…”  
  
“A few came from MLE,” Harry added. “Remember?” he asked me.  
  
I nodded. I did remember. Percy, when he was still a junior member of the Office of Ministry, began pitching the idea of the department soon after the War. He had had a list of people he claimed he wanted to help structure the new department. I had been on the list, as had Ron. There were others—Marcus Flint, Timothy Proudfoot, Ernie MacMillan.  
  
“I did not recognize any of these ‘agents’ when I did work at the Ministry…” I began.  
  
“Polyjuice or glamours,” Harry muttered.  
  
I bit my lip. “You mean…”  
  
Harry nodded. “The one that Malfoy killed in the Manor, the Williams fellow, I knew him. He used to be a hit-wizard. Not long after we arrived on the scene, we identified him. The potion must still have been active when you and Severus arrived at the Manor…”  
  
Severus shifted, brushing his long hair back from his face. “So, in truth, we do not know who these men are?”  
  
Harry frowned, “There had been a rumour a while back that Percy’s men were concealing their identities for matters of ‘homeland security.’ A magical Gestapo…”  
  
Greg groaned and I shifted, the backs of my bare legs sticking to the leather of the couch.  
  
“Have you ascertained why Horace was in Cornwall, Mr. Potter?” Arcturus asked, startling me as I had forgotten about the portraits in my weariness.  
  
“No,” Harry sighed. “I have not been able to trace his exact movements between the time he left Hogwarts and was found floating in Portleven harbour.”  
  
I glanced to the portraits that appeared just as dejected as I felt.  
  
“At least Fannie is safe,” Abraxas sighed. I assumed ‘Fannie’ was Perpetua Fancourt. “For that, you should know how grateful we are, Mr. Goyle.”  
  
Greg said nothing but tugged at the large collar of his shirt.  
  
“For the time being, we should all get some rest,” Harry suggested. “I’ll stay here for the night. Goyle, Kreacher has a room for you on the third floor next to the old woman…”  
  
“More respect for your elders, Potter,” Arcturus hissed. Harry paid no mind.  
  
“I have a feeling that we might have a house full by the end of the week,” Harry finished.  
  
I did not ask why Harry thought we might have more people the house as he rose and exited the room. Greg followed, muttering he wanted to check on ‘Fannie.’ Severus was the next to leave, and I was suddenly alone with the portraits.  
  
“This Weasley boy, Percy, I would not trust him, Miss Granger,” Arcturus said softly.  
  
“I  _am_  growing suspicious,” I admitted with a sigh.  
  
“If you believe he knows more about us than he is letting on, you are most likely right to mistrust him,” Abraxas drawled.  
  
I frowned at the two older men in the frames.  
  
“Why do you say that?”  
  
Both portraits grinned knowingly. “We have been talking,” Arcturus began.  
  
“And we have been debating on why Aberforth needed you to be part of the Knights…  
You see, in an unofficial capacity, I was the bard,” Abraxas said with a huff, apparently not too happy with his role. “I was a historian of sorts. Horace was the vates, the keeper of the ‘Old Ways’ and laws. Aberforth is the druid, the keeper of the secret.”  
  
I moved on the couch to face the portraits properly.  
  
“As the bard, I have kept the history of the Knights—the Order of Merlin, a secret. The bloodlines…”  
  
“Which you sometimes confuse,” Arcturus muttered, still sore after the confusion about Greg’s bloodline.  
  
Abraxas cleared his painted throat and glanced to his left toward Arcturus who was on the wall next to him in a much smaller frame.  
  
“There have always been eight members, eight descendants of the Order, Miss Granger. Seven are born of the offspring of seven of the sisters who lived on Avalon.”  
  
I had heard the story. There were nine sisters, of which Morgan le Fey was chief, residing on Avalon. The nine sisters were witches, by modern standards, all possessing extraordinary magical ability. I had read, when researching the validity of Arthurian legend by Wizarding standards that the nine sisters did not need to use wands to perform magic. From the simple to the complex, the nine sisters had so much magical ability that no wand was needed to either filter or amplify their power.  
  
“There were nine sisters; seven had children of mortal men, thus seven offspring. Morgan le Fey was one of the seven, and her line descends through her son Ywain. Morgan le Fey was powerful, though her son was not. Ywain had a son by a witch, the son was Mabon, the divine son, and from Mabon, a powerful blood line was wrought through time,” Abraxas continued.  
  
“But this is not your line, Miss Granger,” Arcturus said with a satisfied grin.  
  
Abraxas grumbled at the interruption, but went on. “Melusine, who did not have children was one of the nine. Melusine’s two sisters, Melior and Palatyne, are part of the seven from which some of us are descended. The mother of the eighth was not a sister, but more of an attachment to the nine Morgens, Viviane, or Nimue, or whatever names you would like to call her. The eighth descendant comes from the union of Nimue and Merlin.”  
  
I cocked my head, slightly incredulous.  
  
“I know what you said about there being a bit of truth in every legend, but I  _do_  know my mythology. Melusine and her sisters come from French legend and have been appropriated into British legend in the Sixteenth Century. In addition, Mabon is the  _son_  of Modron, a Welsh derivative of Morgan le Fey.  
  
And, if I am following your line of thought, you theorize that I am descended from some legendary union of Nimue and Merlin? Gentlemen, please…”  
  
“Legend and myth do not always have it right, Miss Granger,” Abraxas grumbled, on the verge of anger. “This a truth that has been passed down through the generations. We Pure-bloods can trace our lineage. Even Half-bloods like Potter can trace their line. But you, Miss Granger, are a Mud-Muggle-born and because of that, all we have are theories.”  
  
I did not retort.  
  
“We can trace Potter, Goyle, Dumbledore, Fancourt, Slughorn, and even Snape, but you, Miss Granger, are a mystery. Aberforth must know your lineage, Miss Granger, or at least has come to a similar conclusion, else you would not have been contacted,” Arcturus said calmly.  
  
“And there is also the fact that there is a member missing. Before Slughorn’s murder, there were seven…” Abraxas trailed.  
  
“Then it is possible that I am not some legendary product of two of the most powerful magical folk in the history of Britain?” I muttered, my voice dripping with sarcasm.  
  
The portraits said nothing.  
  
I sighed, knowing that I was far too tired to banter with portraits of two old men any longer. I filed their theory under ‘improbable,’ and left the room.

* * *

  
  
  
  
Harry had taken his own bedroom, as I had expected. Greg was in a prepared guest room next to a small room that held a sleeping Perpetua Fancourt. Kreacher would not come when I called, as it was half the time I did call for him. I moved to the door to the boy’s bedroom, figuring that I could sleep on Jamie’s larger bed for the night.  
  
However, as I walked down the corridor, I found that the door to Sirius’ old room was open and candlelight streamed out into the darkness. The door the Potter boy’s room was locked and would not open no matter what spell I used. I groaned softly and muttered a curse upon the nasty elf as my bare feet carried me to the open door. Awkwardness remained between Severus and I, and I knew it had to end at some point.  
  
Standing in the door, I noticed that my carpetbag was resting on the top of the dresser and Severus was standing next to the window, looking out onto the overgrown back garden of the house. He stood in a loose pair of black pyjama pants, and no top. In the candlelight, the scars I had noticed the night before were more defined.  
  
Severus’s over long hair fell over his shoulders, obscuring the top of the vertical scars, but as before, the pattern reminded me of wood grain. I studied his posture as he slumped forward against the wall next to the window, his right forearm lifted slightly to steady him. His shoulders were wide, his ribs tapering down to a narrow waist. Under the scars and pale skin, I could see strength, power.  
  
Heat spread down from my belly to my core, and I grimaced as the flush of arousal seared through my body. I cleared my throat to announce that I was just in the door, and Severus turned slowly.  
  
“Kreacher enlarged the bed,” Severus said dully, moving away from the window.  
  
My eyes moved to the bed, and indeed, the bed was enlarged to comfortably accommodate two people. It occurred to me that Kreacher really did hate me, after all. Elf-warding the door to the boy’s room was only the start.  
  
“He won’t come when I call,” I murmured. “I can sleep in the front room.”  
  
Severus did not answer, but sat down on the far side of the bed away from the door, placing his wand on the bed stand, his back to me. I crossed into the room and went to retrieve my carpetbag. I could bathe and change in the bathroom. As I took the bag down from the dresser, I heard the bed shift.  
  
“No, you won’t.”  
  
I turned, my bag heavy in my hand as my arm fell to my side. I found Severus staring at me, his onyx eyes glittering just as they had when I had gone out earlier in the day.  
  
“There’s no need to sleep down there…”  
  
I swallowed. My thighs itched to rub together and I could feel my knickers sticking to my sodden centre. I almost wished he would not speak to me, his voice sent shivers through my nerves. I also wished his black eyes were not so deep or glittered. I then wondered if he could see something in my eyes, not with Legilimency, but with something else. I quickly turned my eyes away.  
  
“I’m going to wash up,” I murmured again, and tried my best to make my way quickly from the room without looking as if I were running away.  
  
The bathroom offered little solace as I bathed. I wondered if I were going mad. After so many years, attraction had been the last thing on my mind. However, as I began toweling off my bare legs and hips, I could still feel an unnatural heat between my thighs. I stared into a half fogged mirror at my face and the blush that seemed to be permanently burned on my cheeks.  
  
I was tired.  
  
Exiting the bathroom in my old tee shirt and a pair of old boxer shorts, I carried my bag in my left hand, my wand in my right hand. I could Transfigure something to sleep on, I figured, and in the morning, find a room or closet to use as a room. Of course, I knew I could go back to Sheffield, but the idea was distasteful to me. As Severus had said, it was too isolating. A month ago, the isolation had suited me.  
  
Sighing, I found Severus already in bed, his back to me, and the candles extinguished. I closed the door behind me, noticing that at some point the latch had been fixed from where I had kicked the door open the night before. Setting the carpetbag on the top of the dresser again, I padded to the vacant side of the bed, closest to the door.  
  
By the time I slipped under the covers, I believed Severus to be asleep. We had at least a foot of space between us. I closed my eyes, allowing my body to comfortably fall into the enlarged mattress, my head into a new down filled pillow. I inhaled as I placed my hands over the sheets to my belly, a position I took as I tried to go to sleep.  
  
Severus rolled onto his back, startling me, and I heard him exhale through his crooked nose loudly.  
  
“Does this feel as ridiculous to you?”  
  
His voice was soft, but still deep, the reverberation echoing through my chest.  
  
I opened my eyes. “Define ‘this.’”  
  
“Sleeping next to me.”  
  
I licked my lips. “’Awkward’ might be a better word for it.”  
  
“Because I am…”  
  
Severus did not finish, but shifted again on the bed, so that he gazed into the side of my face. I could not look at him; I did not want to see what was in his eyes.  
  
“You said that I was with you, in your dream.”  
  
It was then I turned. I had hoped he had forgotten the night in Sheffield. Of course, I knew he would not. He was Severus Snape. He paid attention to details. I rolled onto my side until we were face to face, only the dim light from the bedroom window making it possible to see his eyes staring into mine.  
  
“In your dream, you loved me. Why?”  
  
I licked my lips again, for lacking of knowing how to react in a manner that would seem I was comfortable. Severus’ right thumb was on my bottom lip, suddenly, and I felt my heart give a particularly painful wrench.  
  
“Why?” he asked again, his voice taking on a different quality than ever before. Seductive.  
  
The pad of his thumb moved to the corner of my mouth to allow me to speak.  
  
“I don’t know,” I whispered, my mouth dry.  
  
His face was impassive, but his thumb brushed my lips again, tracing the outline.  
  
“It was a dream…” I trailed as his other fingers joined in on the quest to trace my face. An uncomfortable dampness was wetting the crotch of my knickers under the boxer shorts I wore. “I wanted…”  
  
He kissed me, but it was clumsy.  
  
He moved on the bed and the sheets whispered against our skin. Severus’ kiss was suddenly real, deep, and I buried my fingers into his hair. I could feel his arms moving, to cradle my head and shoulders, and in return, my own arms moved of their own accord. We held each other.  
  
It made no sense. My world was still rotating too fast.  
  
The tip of his hooked nose brushed my cheek as our mouths opened and our tongues tangled. Heat, need, whatever one could call it, raced through me. There was something too rushed about the situation, but I did not want him to stop kissing or holding me. It was far better than my dreams.  
  
It did stop, eventually, and Severus stared down at me, his face still impassive, but his lips visibly reddened in the poor light. My arms fell to my sides as he leaned over me.  
  
“No one has ever loved me,” he whispered. “I don’t think I would forget that void in my memory.”  
  
I touched his bare chest, my fingers brushing against the line of dark hair between the defined pectoral muscles to the old circular scar.  
  
“Why would you love me, even if it were in your dreams?”  
  
My mouth opened, and words came out, words that I had not consciously considered before.  
  
“You were with me because you wanted to be. You loved me.”  
  
Severus blinked, the impassivity of his face burning away to something else, something I could not identify. He leaned down on his elbows so that his face was only inches from mine.  
  
“I don’t know you, Hermione Gragner,” he whispered and my heart fractured. His words had not been cold or cruel, but they were true. He did not know me, and if he did not know me, how could he ever love me?  
  
A dream was a dream, after all. Even in my waking hours, I did not wish someone to love me, and I did not know if  _I_  could love anyone. I did not know what love was—I only knew what it was to love something that was dead. A mother’s love is different from the love between a man and woman, and I had never really had that, even with Ron.  
  
Oh, but I wanted to know what it was to love. I knew there would be good times and bad, I had had that facsimile with Ron. Love, out of some self-imposed obligation, it, in the end, was not love at all.  
  
I turned my face away and into the pillow. However, pale hands grasped my face and again, Severus kissed me. I had so much self-pity buried deep in my soul that it made me sick.  
  
It was wrong. It was unfair. I felt as if my heart was being broken, yet my body wanted to hold him inside for as long as he would let me. I knew this man better than he knew himself, but he did not know me and it was not stopping him from sliding under the sheets and into the cradle of my hips.  
  
He kissed along my jaw, and I found myself relishing the feel of his thin lips upon my skin. It was not simply the thrill of being touched by another person; it was far more than that.  
  
I had dreamt of him, and I wondered if I had dreamt of him even before he appeared in the front room of Grimmauld Place. At that thought, I opened my eyes.  
  
Severus’ eyes were like bottomless pits. I could not tell where the irises ended and the pupils began in the dark. The abyss of his eyes would have scared me, perhaps, but somewhere deep in the dark, there was a peculiar spark of life.  
  
“How long?” I began, not trusting my voice. I could feel him against my pelvis, the warmth of his stiffening cock trying to press into the space between my labia. “How long was it between your first conscious moment and your arrival here?”  
  
I had asked the question to divert my thoughts from myself, from the moment. As much as I wanted more from the man above me, his very touch was excruciating. It made me remember all the wrong things, made me feel all the wrong things.  
  
Severus’ eyes flickered and within I believed I saw the slight distancing of sight as he tried to remember.  
  
“My first conscious memory… A stained glass window.”  
  
I said nothing, but stared into his eyes, a hand moving to brush an oily strand of ebony hair from his pale face.  
  
“My father took me to church a few times, more to keep me occupied on Sundays and out of his sight. I remembered the Bible lessons—the raising of Lazarus. That was the window I saw. The next moment was the graveyard outside, and the yew tree…”  
  
I swallowed. I had let other thoughts overwhelm me from something that I needed to know. I had let my own body distract me.  
  
I had never laid much to my dreams, as they had been either one or the other for years since the War. Trees—always one tree, or the other. In one, Severus stood at my side, gazing upon the golden apples with my mother in the background. In the other, and only on occasion, I was pulling Severus from the yew tree on a low tumulus in a bleak graveyard.  
  
I did not believe in providence or signs, at least, I felt it to be too illogical to believe. But as it was, Severus Snape was alive and free from the confines of the yew tree of my dreams.   
  
“What is it?” he asked softly.  
  
I shook my head; I was too tired and too aroused to think. I wanted to denigrate myself in some fashion. Severus Snape’s hips were nestled against mine and my lips still tingled from his kiss. Why did I have to analyze and overanalyze everything?  
  
Severus pulled away, and I nearly protested. The moment his warmth and weight was gone, I realized how silly it had been. We were thrown together by circumstance, the dreams meant nothing.  
  
“I should like to know…” he trailed, but shaking head, did not finish. Instead, we fell silent, sleepy.  
  
We moved in unison after a few moments, rolling to our sides. When his right arm slipped about my waist, I was reminded of the night in Sheffield and how small I felt against him. I wondered if Severus had ever loved anyone besides Lily Potter. He claimed that no one loved him, but whom had he loved?  
  
Was Severus always so aloof and acerbic? Could he ever be tender, especially now that he was free of Dumbledore and Voldemort?   
  
I sighed softly. Severus Snape and I, sleeping together in the same bed—that seemed more like a dream than any I had had in years.

 

 


	9. IX

**IX**  
  
My dream ended abruptly when I awoke the next morning. An obnoxious high-pitched squeak made me bolt up in bed, searching for my wand. I was alone in the bed, Severus’ side cold and half made. On the foot of the bed, seeming to roll and jump was the source of the unwelcome noise.  
  
“Pig, shut it,” I growled.  
  
The little Scops owl obeyed with its large eyes staring back at me dolefully. In my half waking state, I  _was_  surprised to see Ron’s little owl. For so many years, I had grown accustomed to the excitable owl’s squeaks, but I had not seen the owl in almost six years.  
  
“What do you have for me?” I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Glancing to the window, I figured it was approximately eight in the morning.  
  
Pig had dropped the letter on Severus’ side of the bed, and at my question, the owl perked up and hopped to the letter, skillfully picking up in its beak. Hopping up my sheet covered leg; Pig dropped the letter in my lap.  
  
I sighed although my insides began in clamp up. Ron had not sent word to me about anything for years. I had a sudden dread. With shaking fingers, I stroked Pig’s feathers atop his head.  
  
“Go down to the kitchen, Pig,” I muttered.  
  
I did not bother to watch the owl take flight, his small wings beating the air frantically as he slipped between a small crack between the door and the frame. I idly thought that perhaps Pig’s appearance in the kitchen would cause some alarm. I turned my still sleepy attention to the letter on my lap.  
  
My name was printed on the front of the parchment, but it was not Ron’s scrawl. In fact, the letters seemed intentionally ambiguous in the sense that the letters were uniform. I flipped the letter and broke a wax seal with no stamp. Inside was a card, and again printed, uniform letters were on one side.  
  
_‘Extremely urgent. Meet at Blue Anchor Inn, Helston, seven pm. Mention to no one. Come alone. Parkinson.’_  
  
I licked my lips and slipped the card back in the envelope. The first thought was: trap.   
  
I rose and began dressing, slipping the note into my carpetbag and out of sight. I automatically dressed in my dragon hide uniform and pulled my hair back in a low ponytail. I donned my holster and slipped my wand inside.   
  
In the kitchen, I found Greg drinking coffee by the scullery door, staring at Pig who was eating from a small plate, his beak crunching on bacon at the end of the kitchen table. Severus was missing, as was Harry. At my entrance, Greg nodded a greeting. I began preparing myself breakfast on the stove, a fried egg, two strips of bacon and toast. As I sat, so did Greg, across from me, graciously pouring me a cup of what looked to be strong coffee.  
  
“Isn’t that Weasley’s owl?”  
  
I paused with my coffee in hand. I was surprised Greg remembered the owl; he must have remembered it from school.  
  
“I think he lost a letter for Harry,” I mumbled, casting Pig an apologetic glance. The little owl hooted mournfully and continued eating.  
  
“Potter left for the Ministry about an hour ago,” Greg commented as I began eating slowly. “Severus is upstairs with Fannie.”  
  
I blinked. “Is she awake?”  
  
Greg nodded, “She was awake when I popped my head in when I got up. She knew who I was, but asked for Severus.”  
  
Greg’s voice was slightly tremulous when he said Severus’ name. I supposed he wanted to call Severus ‘Professor,’ much as I had when I was first faced with the man I believed to be dead. Then again, Greg’s voice seemed natural calling Perpetua Fancourt ‘Fannie,’ as the portraits had.  
  
I ate silently, but I could feel Greg staring at me.   
  
“What is it?” I asked finally, finishing my plate and raising my eyes to the man across the table.  
  
Greg shrugged his wide shoulders. He still wore what he had on the night before, the button down shirt rumpled from sleep. I wondered why he had not bothered to Transfigure the shirt, or at least resized it to fit properly.  
  
“I am just wondering…” he started, setting his coffee down and reaching for the pot to refill his mug. “Is this going to turn out to be a fight?”  
  
I sighed. I had wondered the same thing.  
  
“There are still to many secrets in the way…” I trailed, listening to the sound of coffee pouring.   
  
“If the Knights of Walpurgis are to protect the secret of Merlin’s prison, and if we are now the Knights of Walpurgis, we need to know who the enemy is,” Greg reasoned.  
  
I knew I needed to ignore my memories of the man when he was a Malfoy lackey. Had Greg always been so articulate? I pursed my lips and glanced to Pig again. The little owl had seemed to be listening to us, and I rose, moving down the table to the last chair. I reached a finger out to Pig and the owl hooted happily and fluttered to land on my hand.  
  
“I thought you and Weasley were a pair,” Greg said softly, and I smirked.  
  
“About six years ago.”  
  
Greg hummed into his mug as he drank. I paid little mind to the soft slurping noise the larger man made, and stroked Pig’s back with the wide of my finger. Despite the owl’s excitability, he was cute and friendly. I had, at times, liked Ron’s owl more than the man.  
  
“I haven’t really kept up with people from school,” Greg stated.  
  
I glanced to Greg to find him watching me stroke Pig’s grey feathers.  
  
“Neither have I, in some ways. Besides Harry and Ginny, I haven’t really been…” I trailed. “And Percy, but that’s about it.”  
  
Greg nodded. “After Vince…”  
  
He did not finish and looked away. I frowned. I knew so little about Gregory Goyle that much was certain. He had been Malfoy’s lackey, a brutish fellow who grunted more than he talked in school. As I studied his face, I realized that my conceptions had been wrong. Greg was not some troll descendant, and I could see as I studied his face, that there was intelligence in his brow, his eyes.   
  
“I enjoy my work,” he said. “It is odd not going to work this morning, I’m not sure if I like it,” he finished with a crooked smile.  
  
I could sympathize. I liked my job at the Ministry, and now I was unemployed. In fact, because of my job, Greg Goyle was sitting in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, something that I would never have imagined in my wildest daydreams.  
  
I stroked Pig’s feathers a while longer, my mind turning to the note he had brought.   
  
Parkinson’s note sent by Pig. It was a puzzle. I could not ask the owl how it came to be that he was bringing a note from a Parkinson, if it were truly from a Parkinson.  
  
There was Petroc Parkinson, the patriarch of the family, exonerated Death Eater, then his wife Steren Parkinson nee Selwyn. There was the daughter Pansy, and older son Piran who was estranged. The only reason I knew much about the Parkinsons was due to the portraits I had interviewed. Piecing together family histories, I had sketched family trees in my Codex. The sketches were in no way complete, and possibly inaccurate, I was still trying to figure out how the Black family seemed to be related to every wizard in Britain.  
  
The question, however, was which Parkinson wanted to meet me in Helston. I only knew Pansy, and as far as I knew, her family would have no reason to contact me.  
  
Petroc Parkinson had identified Horace Slughorn’s body, and I had already accepted that perhaps the Parkinson who wanted me to meet them in Cornwall had information about Slughorn. I frowned to myself; I was to tell no one and to come alone.  
  
It could be a trap.  
  
Extremely urgent, the note had said. I wished I knew why Pig would be the one to deliver the cryptic note. I wished I knew a lot of things.  


* * *

  
  
  
“You don’t have any chocolate, do you, boy?”  
  
The unfamiliar voice had startled me and I lost my place reading my Codex in the front room under the gaze of the portraits. I had sent Pig away soon after breakfast and Greg disappeared upstairs, claiming to want to clean up and speak to ‘Potter’s nutter elf’ about some proper clothes.   
  
Severus appeared in the door to the front room, and in his arms, was Perpetua Fancourt, dressed in a long kimono robe, her bare feet dangling and swinging as a child’s would. In Severus’ arms, ‘Fannie’ did seem like a child. She was a small woman. Compared to the day before, she seemed quite well, her glittering violet eyes full of life.  
  
I closed my book, dropped it on the couch across from the door, and rose to my feet. Severus’ eyes passed over me to the portraits. He set Fannie on the other couch, moving to stand by the door.  
  
“Hello, gentlemen,” Fannie said to the portraits.  
  
I shifted on my feet, feeling awkward.  
  
“It is good to see you, Fannie,” Arcturus said with an odd smile. Abraxas merely nodded.  
  
Fannie’s hair was still a mess of grey curls, but they were pulled up in pins. Her wrinkled face shifted from a smile to a frown. The childish mien was gone.  
  
“Severus tells me that Horace has been murdered,” she said, her tone grave.  
  
“Yes,” Abraxas grumbled.  
  
“We will have to move faster then. Find Aberforth and get these young people to the place… There is no time for an offence.”  
  
I blinked, my eyes moving to Severus. He did not meet me eyes and quietly slipped from the room. I took half a step forward to follow, but Fannie’s voice stopped me.  
  
“We have met once before, Miss Granger, if I remember correctly?”  
  
I took a step back and slowly sunk to the couch. Fannie’s eyes were boring into my face, and the face I remembered meeting years ago was staring back at me.   
  
“Yes, madam,” I answered.  
  
Fannie’s eyes moved over my face, to my body, to my wand handle poking out of the holster. Her scrutiny made me shiver. Perpetua Fancourt, in many ways, reminded me of Severus, her gaze just as penetrating and haunting.  
  
“Have you located the eighth?”  
  
I blinked. It took me a moment to understand her question.  
  
“No, madam…”  
  
“It is priority, Miss Granger.”  
  
Her tone was scolding and I felt a blush burn my cheeks.  
  
“I am old, Miss Granger, so is Aberforth, we cannot fight. With Horace gone, you will need all the strength you can muster. That is why you must find the eighth Knight.   
  
Horace had no descendants, and my own child died. Horace’s entire line has died with him, and I expect before long, mine will die as well.”  
  
Abraxas made a noise and Fannie’s eyes moved to his larger portrait.  
  
“My line will diminish, unless my grandson bears an heir worthy to keep the secret,” Abraxas conceded. “Even then, it would be too late for some of us.”  
  
I inhaled deeply. I had no bloodline to keep me, to obligate me. However, Abraxas believed that I did, though obscured by time.  
  
“Why was Horace in Cornwall, Fannie?” Arcturus asked. “Have you had any contact with him?”  
  
Fannie shook her head, several dull gray curls falling from the pins and about her pale wrinkled face. “I have not seen Horace since we hid the boy at Ashbrittle. When the boy woke, I sent a signal, the old advert we used to use in the Prophet if we needed to gather. Horace did not come at first, and Aberforth made his excuses, and began preparations.”  
  
“Horace and Aberforth disappeared over two weeks ago,” Arcturus said softly. “Did you know?”  
  
Fannie sighed. “I suspected that they would leave Hogsmeade at some point. Men were coming around, asking questions. They came to Ashbrittle, asking what I knew about the ‘watchtowers.’ Whoever is responsible now knows about the ‘watchtowers.’”  
  
The violet eyes moved to me and I felt my blush deepen. The eyes were not accusing, but sad. The eyes drifted back to Abraxas and I risked a breath.  
  
“I had to move the boy, and it was no easy task. Aberforth helped me hide him until I could perform the Charms and send him here…”  
  
I licked my lips. She was speaking of Severus.  
  
“I assume Horace went to Cornwall seeking the eighth.”  
  
Again, the violet eyes fell upon me. I shifted on the chesterfield.  
  
“I was lucky to send Gregory here the first time, but he did not stay put. The men tracked me somehow to Glasgow, but I was too frantic to find Gregory, get him here…”  
  
Fannie trailed and her eyes moved to her kimono-clad lap, a kimono, I realized, I had given Ginny as an anniversary present three years before.   
  
“I realise, Miss Granger, that there is much you do not know, and as it is, you  _must_  know now.”  
  
I stiffened as Fannie pulled her wand from her sleeve. I had not noticed a wand before, but as I watched her Charm the door to the front room shut, locking, warding, and silencing it, I realised that her wand looked very odd. Yew wood, approximately twelve inches long…  
  
“Toward the end of the War, there was movement around the Knights, questions being asked about the us. Of course, Tom Riddle had tried to adopt the name of the Knights early on, and because of that, the Ministry began ‘red flagging’ any mention of us.   
  
We kept to the shadows; Riddle was only interested in the Hallows. However, we watched the descendants of our lines, those who would replace us. We had considered letting it all end with us, but having two Dark Wizards in one age…”  
  
Fannie slipped her wand back into the silken sleeve of the borrowed kimono. She regarded me with a soft smile before continuing.  
  
“We did not know all who would replace us. We knew of Severus, Ulysses’ grandson, and we watched him with great interest. However, when Severus’ life was threatened, we intervened.  
  
Aberforth took Severus from the Shrieking Shack and brought him to me in Ashbrittle. I hid Severus there until he was healed.”  
  
“How?”  
  
My voice was thin and dry, and I cleared my throat.  
  
“He hasn’t aged…” I trailed.  
  
Fannie’s eyes glittered with amusement and her thin lips curled into a smile.  
  
“I hid him in a yew tree.”  
  
My hand slipped over my mouth, and I closed my eyes.  
  
“Death feeds a yew tree, and in return, the tree gives life,” Fannie continued. “The Ashbrittle Yew has lived for over three thousand years, planted on the tumulus of an infamous pagan king. My line has protected the secret of Ashbrittle from the time of Merlin, the tree, and the sacred well under what is now the Church of St. John the Baptist.”  
  
My dream and Severus’ words were recalled and slowly I let my hand fall from my mouth.  
  
“Protecting Severus for what was to come was paramount. Just as Harry Potter was protected in part by Aberforth, and Gregory by Horace during their time at Hogwarts, the descendants of the seven of nine were watched.”  
  
I opened my eyes. “And me?”  
  
Fannie sighed. “We did not know for certain. Aberforth watched you on occasion, your skill, and your power. Most of what he knew of you, he learned through the portraits at Hogwarts…”  
  
I frowned. “How?” I repeated.  
  
“His beloved Ariana was interested in you. She could move into Hogwarts through the ‘come and go’ room and she listened to the other portrait’s accounts of you. Ariana knew too much about us because of Aberforth, and many of us believed her to be a possible danger.”  
  
But she wasn’t, in the end. Augusta Longbottom had destroyed the portrait as means of stopping the pursuit of Death Eaters.  
  
“We told Miss Granger of our theory, Fannie,” Abraxas interjected.  
  
“One that I share, Abraxas,” Fannie agreed, nodding to the portrait.  
  
I scoffed a laugh. Fannie’s eyes settled upon me again.  
  
“One that Aberforth shared, Miss Granger, and he would know.  
  
You may be Muggle-born, but somewhere in your lineage, magic flowed. The Knights had lost track of that line long ago. Those who came before us, at some point, believed perhaps that by protecting the secret, the line of Merlin and Nimue had to be buried, purposely lost.  
  
Now, events have been set into motion that requires secrets to be unearthed. You already know the secret we protect. You know that others want that secret and the power it holds. Horace is dead, and I doubt that he will be the last loss we experience before the end.”  
  
“And how will ‘this’ end?” I asked skeptically.  
  
Fannie pursed her lips, causing the wrinkles about her mouth to tighten.  
  
“We do what we must to stop the one seeking to obtain Merlin. Kill, if we must, who we must.”  
  
My brow knitted. I had had enough of killing in my lifetime…  
  
“This has happened only once before,” Abraxas sighed. “In the Fifteenth Century, wizards sought the secret of Merlin, among other things. It was brought about due to the Muggle’s intent to eradicate what they considered to be the ‘devil’s craft.’ Of course, there was little Muggles could do to destroy us. There was a backlash in the magical community—witches and wizards wanted to subjugate the Muggles…”  
  
I smirked, some wizarding folk still wanted to subjugate Muggles.  
  
“By then, the truth of Merlin had been buried due in part to the Knights’ false propaganda. Hufflepuff had already diverted the true nature of the Order of Merlin five hundred years before, however, because of that, those wizards who wished to delineate the connection between magic and Muggle sought the truth of Merlin. To them, Merlin was a benevolent and fair-minded wizard, just as the children’s tales had taught.  
  
If these wizards had the power of Merlin, they could segregate the two societies safely, or so they thought. All of this was a precursor to the Code of Secrecy, and the segregation acts, before there were Ministers for Magic, when there was still a Wizard’s Council.  
  
Merlin’s very name carried weight and authority. With his power, the Wizard’s Council would be able to move forward, moving ahead of all other nations as the first to live in peace with Muggles. With Merlin’s power, the Church would no longer interfere, with Merlin’s power; the wizarding community would be safe.  
  
Our ancestors acted to keep the Council away, to sow misinformation in the minds of the nation, and it worked—the secret was safe. Now, however, the tactics have changed,” Abraxas finished.  
  
Fannie nodded. “Attacks, murder, intimidation, it is all telling of a darker force at work. Before, Merlin was sought for the ‘greater good,’ now, Merlin is being sought for personal gain.”  
  
I leaned into the arm of the chesterfield, and let my mind drain of questions. I could see what needed to be done, and it frightened me more that I thought possible.

* * *

  
  
  
  
Greg stayed with Fannie, after Kreacher had found him some old clothes. I stood in the doorway of the front room, listening as Fannie told Greg what he must do. Greg sat close to her side in a pair of ragged jeans and an old dark green tee shirt. He looked like a normal man, and not some trollish wizard with a propensity to crack his knuckles.  
  
“If Aberforth has left some as to the identity of who is ordering these men to attack, it could be in Hogsmeade,” I heard Fannie say to Greg. Then to me: “Ashbrittle. My cottage is near the church, and that would be the place to begin following Aberforth’s path.”  
  
I had my reservations on sending Greg outside the protections of Grimmauld Place, at least, not alone. He had been tracked in his effort to bring Fannie to the house. However, as I listened, Fannie mentioned Harry.  
  
Harry had returned to Grimmauld Place only the hour before and was talking with Severus in the drawing room upstairs. After Fannie had talked to me, I felt as if I were being neatly pushed aside. I had yet to speak to Severus about the night before, or the revelation Fannie provided about the yew tree.  
  
It was six o’clock, and I knew that if I were no longer of any notice to those in the house, I could slip out easily. I would Apparate from Grimmauld Square as close to Helston as I could manage. I had never been to the village before, but I had been to the Loe or as come called it, Loe Pool, as a girl during a summer vacation with my parents. It had been my family’s idea to visit every county in Britain, and at times, I wished my parents would spend the money to take us to France every summer instead. As an adult, I was glad to have had the time with them.  
  
I already had my cloak in my hand as I listened to Greg speak in a near whisper to Fannie. It was obvious that Greg was concerned for the old woman, and he would do whatever she asked. I wondered what had formed such an attachment.  
  
Quietly, I moved from the door down the corridor, donning my cloak. I passed the terminus of the stairs in the near dark passage. Something caught me by the wrist and jerked me to a stop.  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
Severus had asked the same question the day before, but this time, his voice was rougher. I turned to him, surprised that he was not in the drawing room, as I had believed.  
  
“Out.”  
  
I snatched my arm away, and continued.  
  
“We need to talk,” Severus said a bit louder and I winced. I had hoped that I would leave the house unnoticed. I paused at the door, but did not turn.  
  
“I agree. When I get back…”  
  
I heard Severus make a sound, perhaps speaking, but I was already out the door onto the stoop. It was raining outside Number 12, and I pulled the cowl of my cloak up over my head. A late spring drizzle had soaked the Square, forming puddles on the street as I walked to the derelict arbor in the middle of the Square.   
  
Drawing my wand, the world compressed around me, and when it was normalized, I was standing in fresh water. I was in Cornwall, and the sky was dark and overcast. I stood in the middle of a shallow breach of Loe Bar, the sea behind me, the Loe before me. Fresh water flowed over the ankles of my boots and I groaned. The drizzle in London was a steady rain in Cornwall.  
  
I began walking. I headed northwest along the wet sand bar, toward Portleven. As darkness fell, I started to Apparate short distances, heading northeast popping into one field to the other. When I came to the edge of Helston, I started walking again.  
  
I had to ask for directions with an old woman at a bus stop. The old woman did not seem too affronted by my dark clothes and cloak and pointed a gnarled finger down the street. I was on Coinagehell Street, only a few yards from the Blue Anchor Inn.  
  
The Blue Anchor Inn was a stone building with blue trimmed windows and door. It seemed to be wedged between two more modern structures. Standing across the street, I could tell that most of the people I could see through the windows were local tourists visiting on the off-season. Shivering as a particularly cold wind swept under the cowl of my cloak, I crossed the empty street.  
  
I ended up in a small parlour of sorts, after asking for ‘Parkinson’ with the publican. I was informed that I was ‘expected.’ I was surprised at the privacy, and the lack of noise from the other patrons. I was then asked if I wanted something to drink or eat by the publican, and I asked only for tea to which I received a curious glance.   
  
I sat alone in the parlour at a small table with a lamp over my head, hanging from a beam in the ceiling. Tea was brought on a cheap porcelain service, and I waited. I had doffed my cloak, hanging it on a peg near the door. While I was alone, I stripped off my holster and dropped it in a pocket in my cloak, slipping my wand into my sleeve and out of sight of the Muggles in the pub.  
  
I was not exactly sure how long I waited as there was no clock in the small room and I dared not draw my wand. I sipped my tea, and rolled my head on my sore shoulders.  
  
The sound of the door shutting made me glance out of the corner of my eye. Standing behind the door was yet another face I had not seen in years.  
  
Pansy Parkinson was dressed in a smart dress suit with an emerald pendant on the lapel. She wore a damp dark trench coat, holding a collapsible umbrella in her left hand. Upon her finger, I noticed, was a ring. I turned my face fully toward her, setting my teacup down.  
  
“Parkinson,” I said in greeting.  
  
Pansy nodded. She was still somewhat pug faced, but prettier after so many years. Her hair, although slightly damp, was coiffed in elegant, glossy black curls stacked atop her head. She looked like a professional, some executive of a prosperous company. I then realized that I did not know what Pansy Parkinson had become after Hogwarts.  
  
She doffed her coat and hanged it next to my cloak, as well as the umbrella by the strap on the remaining peg, and moved to sit across from me, her hands folding upon the tabletop. Her dark blue eyes regarded me coolly.  
  
“You look well, Granger,” Pansy started, but I raised my hand to stop her.  
  
“Dispense with the pleasantries, Parkinson…”  
  
Pansy’s face contorted and all traces of any sort of tolerance left her face.  
  
“I don’t know why I’m doing this, I should have just…” she trailed, and then, strangely, rubbed her face with her hands. I watched her closely, studying her hands, her face. Pansy Parkinson was scared.  
  
“You said it was urgent. It was your note, was it not?”  
  
Pansy sighed and nodded, dropping her hands numbly on the table, jarring the tea service.  
  
“I wrote it.”  
  
I frowned as Pansy’s lips began to tremble.  
  
“Professor Slughorn…” she trailed. “He’s dead because of me.”  
  
I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms before my chest. “He was in Cornwall to see you?”  
  
Pansy nodded, and I could see tears in her eyes. “I was at my parents, getting things ready for the wedding…”  
  
I eyed the ring again. It was a small diamond on a white gold band.  
  
“You are marrying Ron,” I muttered.  
  
Pansy nodded, and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab at her eyes. Then, I did something I would have never expected. I laughed. Pansy stared at me, gaping. I slapped a hand over my mouth to stifle my laughter, but it seemed to make it worse.  
  
“He told me…” Pansy muttered. “He told me that you were insane, Granger, but I, being the stupid cow I am, thought better of you than that.”  
  
My laughter stopped. We stared at each other for a long while, Pansy’s fear changing to anger, and my sudden burst of mirth changing to guilt.  
  
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, and I meant it.  
  
Pansy huffed. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll just say what I need to, and that will be the end of it. And it has nothing to do with Ron…”  
  
I nodded.  
  
“Professor Slughorn came to see me, the day before the Muggles found his body. He was frantic that I find you, go to you.  
  
He did not speak long, and I could tell that he was anxious to leave. He told me that I needed to help him, and others. Professor Slughorn was so vague, so cryptic, that I had a hard time following him.  
  
He kept squeezing my hands, telling me that I was a ‘watchtower.’”  
  
I wanted to laugh, but all I could manage was a terrible choking noise. Pansy’s eyes narrowed at my reaction, and I began coughing. With tremulous hands, I poured myself some fresh tea and drank it down. I pressed a hand to my heart and cleared my throat.  
  
“Do you know what he meant by that?” I asked finally.  
  
Pansy blinked and then let her eyes fall to her ring.  
  
“I do,” she whispered.  
  
I felt my heart give a particularly hard beat under my hand.  
  
“It was something my great-grandmother Selwyn told me in tales before bed. As far as tales go, it was interesting—Merlin, Avalon, the sisters, and Nimue.”  
  
A shiver passed through me. How was it that Parkinson knew more than I? I sighed; she was a Pure-blood, that was why.  
  
“The only Pure-blood watchtower not directly related to the Blacks,” Pansy mused. “My grandmother found it amusing, but she was related to the Malfoys in Wiltshire. She acted as a watchtower before Abraxas, before Horace…”  
  
“You know then, the Knights?”  
  
Pansy sighed. “Professor, no, Horace explained the connection. I had only ever thought that the ‘watchtower’ meant a descendant of the seven of nine—a guardian of Avalon, a honourary title, a myth.”  
  
“And you wrote to me…” I began.  
  
“Horace was adamant that I contact you, see you. Then, the Muggles found his body in the harbour…”  
  
Pansy inhaled shakily.  
  
“There was danger, he said first thing to me. He was being followed, the Knights were to assemble, the new generation summoned to act. The druid was in hiding, the bard had been dead for years, and the vates—Horace, he knew his life was in danger.”  
  
“How did he know?” I asked, leaning forward in my chair.  
  
Pansy sighed. “Men in black cloaks, Ministry types, had come asking around Hogsmeade, he said. Simple questions at first about the War, the Dark Lord, and any recollection he might have had about the Knights of Walpurgis. As you know, the Dark Lord tried to adopt the name for the Death Eaters.”  
  
I nodded.  
  
“Agents of the Department of Intelligence… Horace knew he was being watched and possibly followed.”  
  
I frowned. “Did you see them?”  
  
Pansy shook her head, sniffing mournfully. “No. Not at first…”  
  
My eyes widened and I glanced to the door. “Explain,” I growled.  
  
Pansy wiped her nose. “I saw them after the MLE had gone, first in London, then on an outing with my mother in Falmouth.”  
  
I rose, and glided to the door. Outside I could hear the patrons and the clink of pint glasses.  
  
“Being engaged to Ronald Weasley has taught me enough, Granger. I was not followed,” Pansy said with a sniff.  
  
I sighed and turned away from the door. “You have your wand, I hope?”  
  
Pansy acted as if I had offended her honour, and in attestation, she gracefully flicked her right arm and her wand slid into her hand. Her sour smirk nearly amused me.  
  
“You’ll need to come with me, Parkinson,” I announced.  
  
“What?”  
  
I grabbed my cloak and twirled it onto my shoulders, not bothering to put my holster back on. I then grabbed Pansy’s coat and tossed it toward her.  
  
“The last run-in I had with these agents nearly killed Lucius Malfoy. If we hadn’t gone to the Manor when we did, he surely would have died, and everything…everything would have been much worse than it is now,” I growled.  
  
Pansy stood, her face unreadable, and slipped into her coat. I let my wand slip into my hand. We could Apparate right to Grimmauld Square from the parlour…  
  
“I cannot go with you, to wherever…” Pansy began softly.  
  
“Do you really understand anything you’ve just told me?” I asked incredulously.  
  
Pansy’s face flushed. “I do, Granger.   
  
I contacted you, as the Professor wished, I am obligated to no more…”  
  
I took a step toward Pansy. I could grab her and go. However, before I could reach out my hand, Pansy’s wand was trained at my face.  
  
“Enough, Granger. Before the Professor left, I spoke my mind. Fairy stories are one thing, but I’ll have no part of this madness.”  
  
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came as Pansy continued.  
  
“Ron and I are marrying in a week, my family’s honour will be restored, and I will continue the purity of my line.”  
  
I closed my mouth to ground my teeth. I did not care a whit about Ron and his impending nuptials. I did not care if he had a happily ever after with Pansy Parkinson or not. All I cared about was putting the pieces together, finding who had killed Horace, finding Aberforth, and squashing the dreadful feeling that something terrible was going to happen.  
  
“Come with me now, Parkinson, there are those who need to inform you…”   
  
Suddenly, there was a terrible crash outside the door, and before I could turn, the door burst open. Pansy made a strange noise and I found myself flying across the room, slamming into the far wall. The impact dazed me, but I jumped up as three figures entered the room, all in black cloaks and with dull faces.  
  
“Granger!” Pansy screeched as one man approached her, wand drawn.  
  
I shook my head roughly after a Stunner whizzed past my face. I growled. Ron had never been very good with stealth and tracking, he had been a strategist working for the MLE. Pansy had been followed.  
  
I could hear Muggles in the pub shouting, excitement when it should have been fear.  
  
There were three in all, all who were unfamiliar. Things were moving too quickly, and my heart pounded. One man moved to cast at Pansy, another moved behind the caster. The third man stepped toward me, slapping my wand from my hand, his wand tip digging into my throat.  
  
“No…” I groaned.  
  
The wand was lifted, and I knew the movement. A Killing Curse.  
  
As much as Pansy Parkinson rankled my nerves, as much as Ron Weasley had spoiled, and delighted, much of childhood and part of my adult life, I could not let an innocent woman die before my eyes.  
  
The wand tip bruised my throat, and then it was gone. I stood before Pansy, just as the Curse was being cast, and I pushed. I pushed at the caster with both hands, anger turning my vision red. There had been enough killing, Horace was one too many.  
  
I heard Pansy scream, but before my eyes, bright light blinded me. Fire engulfed the caster, the man who had tried to kill one of the watchtowers, a Knight by blood right. The caster fell away, his screams joining Pansy’s. The man behind him was trying to put the fire out with Freezing Charms, but the fire, a bloody red colour, hissed, and burned.  
  
Pansy grabbed my arm even as I wordlessly Summoned my wand to my hand. The third man kicked over the table, the tea service crashing to the floor, overturning the chairs to get to me. I back stepped, shielding Pansy with my body as the odour of burning fabric and flesh assaulted my nose. I could hear Muggles shouting now, insisting something was burning and the fire brigade be called. I growled, angry, as the man who had slapped away my wand pressed Pansy and I back into the wall.  
  
On the floor, the burning man’s screams became more pained. The second man was shouting for the third to act, but his words were lost in the screams, shouts, and the booming of my heartbeat in my ears.  
  
“Hold tight,” I gasped out to Pansy whose fingers dug into my left arm.  
  
I saw Grimmauld Square in my mind, blocking out the sight of flames and the unfamiliar man whose teeth were clenched under cruelly curled lips.   
  
“Reducto!”  
  
I Apparated with Pansy, I could feel her fingernails dig into my sleeve, tearing at the fabric and breaking on the weave of metal and dragon hide. The parlour in the Blue Anchor was gone, Pansy pressed into my side, and then, we were on the ground in the disused arbor in the middle of Grimmauld Square, rain pouring down upon us.  
  
Pansy was sobbing, but she rose first, panicking as her eyes scanned the Square. I wanted to tell her to be quiet, to shut her stupid mouth lest the Muggles notice. I did not speak. I could not speak.  
  
I was lying on my back, trying to catch my breath.   
  
“Oh Merlin… Merlin!”  
  
Pansy’s face filled my line of sight, rain dripping from her coiffed hair into my face. I wanted to slap her, somehow the swear of ‘Merlin’ seemed like a blasphemy. However, the way her face was contorted and the feel of her hands on my body made me wonder.  
  
I felt sleepy even though the cold earth against my back was uncomfortable. I wanted to shut my eyes, to block Pansy’s face from my sight.  
  
“Bloody hell,” I heard her mutter, and I wanted to laugh. It was Ron’s favourite swear, I wondered if she had picked it up from him.  
  
I started to close my eyes, but a sharp slap on my cheek roused me.  
  
“For fuckssake, Granger, stay awake!” Pansy screeched. “Where are we?”  
  
I felt my jaw unhinge to answer, but again, my voice did not work.  
  
“Shit… Shit!” Pansy wailed.  
  
“Parkinson, move aside!”  
  
Severus’ face replaced Pansy’s, and I smiled despite myself. Severus’ black, bottomless eyes glowed at he looked down at me. I was safe, Parkinson was safe, and I closed my eyes.  
  
And I supposed I died.  
  
  
**_End Part One_**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Part One


	10. X

**_Part Two_ ** _  
  
Danger is Sweet  
Dulce periculum_

**X**  
  
I was told that my mother’s death was instantaneous, but I often wondered if she knew that that moment would be her last. Did she know she was going to die? If so, had she been frightened?  
  
I missed my mother, but while I lived, I saw her in my dreams. And in my dreams, she was so beautiful.  
  
I saw her again, in death, just as I saw her in my dreams. However, in my dreams, I could never touch her, it was only in death that I could lay my head on her lap under the massive apple tree. She had set her lyre aside to stroke my hair and hum an ancient lullaby. I knelt at her feet, hugging her legs, happy to rest my head forever. I yawned as the lullaby ended and her fingers lifted my face so that her honey coloured eyes could meet mine.   
  
“I’m not scared,” I said to her, as if to answer an unsaid question.  
  
“You have been for a long time, my darling,” my mother said, stroking my cheek. “The fear has gripped you for so long…”  
  
I blinked slowly. “Since the War, since losing the baby, since losing Ron, and you. Why have I lost so much?”  
  
My mother smiled sadly. “It was your lot, Hermione, unfortunate as it has been. But, it has made you stronger, it has readied you for the future.”  
  
I frowned. “I have no future anymore, mummy,” I whispered, using my childish endearment.  
  
“Yes, you do. It will be a glorious future, but first you have to overcome the trials of the time in which you were born.”  
  
I opened my mouth to protest. I was dead. I did not want to go on, not with all the hideous things that were to come. I did not want to be part of some puzzle of Merlin or the Knights of Walpurgis any longer. I was tired of fighting, and tired of the bleakness of my life. I wanted to rest my head on my mother’s lap and sleep, forever.  
  
“You are the key, Hermione, and you are the keeper. If you die, the madness that is imprisoned in this tree will be released. Everything and everyone you have ever loved will die…”  
  
My mother was no longer looking at me, but at the enormous trunk of the apple tree. My eyes moved to the tree and to the branches above us. The golden apples swayed on the limbs in a fragrant breeze, the pale green leaves whispered. I wanted to tell her that there were so few left to love.  
  
“You must live. This place is not just a dream or the afterlife, it is real.”  
  
My mother was not my mother, just a vision. The woman who stroked my cheek was a version of my mother, just as she was a version of all the women who came before me. In death, there was truth.  
  
“Yes, my darling, now you see…”  
  
She was my mother, my mother’s mother, all the way back to the source.  
  
“You cannot die; you must live in order to keep the monster imprisoned here in its place. You, your daughter, your daughter’s daughter, as it has always been since the olden days, unless you act.”  
  
I wanted to tell her that even if I lived I could not have daughters. I had had one and she had died.  
  
“As long as my line lives, I have the power to keep this tree alive. And as long as my line lives, there is a chance to end it.”  
  
I understood, somehow, but still I wanted to stay.  
  
“Please don’t make me go…” I whispered. “I don’t want to be alone any longer.”  
  
The mother of all my mothers smiled, and in that smile, I saw myself. “You won’t be. The yew has brought one to you that was dead…you have brought him before this tree in your dreams, and he has stood by you, as he will always stand by you. He is the last defence we have if the monster escapes…”  
  
I stared at my mother, incredulous. Severus…  
  
“Now go.”  
  
I found myself moving, my wishes not complying with my body. I stood before my mother and turned away. The mist that surrounded the tree parted for me to walk along the grassy ground, the scent of apples on the wind. I walked and walked, my feet bare, wearing my dragon hide trousers and shirt. The scent of apples was replaced by the scent of blood.  
  
It was as the mist compressed around me, that I felt the pain.  


* * *

  
  
  
Oxygen entered my lungs and I gasped, my back arching my body upward. I was blind, but I could hear and feel. I heard someone weeping distantly, but closer, I heard gasps of shock. I felt hands pulling me back down to lie on my back.   
  
“That’s impossible,” I heard someone say, but I did not know who. “She was dead, damnit, she was dead!”  
  
“Shut it, Potter, and find some more bandages!” a male voice hissed near me. “And get your wife to hurry with the potions!”  
  
Severus, it was Severus’ voice.  
  
“I’m here, Professor!”  
  
My jaw was forced open and potions poured down my throat. I gagged, but swallowed the best I could. The pain I felt in my chest burned into my lungs, making it hard to breathe, making it seem as if my heart were somehow squeezed.  
  
“Mrs. Potter, you need to stop the bleeding, or the potion will have been for naught.”  
  
Ginny was there.  
  
“I know…it’s just…”  
  
“Get a hold of yourself, woman, you’re supposed to be a Healer!”  
  
Magic floated over me and soon the pain diminished until I could breathe properly.  
  
“There’s internal bleeding,” I heard Ginny mutter.   
  
“Can it be stopped?”  
  
The question was by a different voice, Greg Goyle’s voice.  
  
“I will have to locate it first. The diagnostic Charm is not so precise,” Ginny muttered.  
  
“Do what you must, Mrs. Potter, anything to make sure she lives,” I heard Severus say, then felt his hand on my forehead.  
  
“How is she?” I heard a new voice ask, a female voice, ragged and tearful.  
  
“She might live,” Greg answered. “And if she does, you should be kneeling at her feet, Pans, thanking her for saving your life.”  
  
There was anger in Greg’s voice, and if I had been able, I would have smiled.  
  
“I know, I know!” Pansy said through her tears.   
  
“There now,” another voice said, soothingly. Fannie. “Let’s get you something to drink, my dear, and let Mrs. Potter and Severus heal Miss Granger…”  
  
I heard footsteps away, and by the sound of footfall on stone, I figured that I was on the scullery table, just as Fannie had been the day before.  
  
“Found it,” I heard Ginny mutter. “The spleen has been…” she trailed. “I can heal it,” she stated and I imagined that she was saying this to Severus after a concerned or angry glance. “Did Parkinson say what caused this?”  
  
“A Blasting Curse at close range. It must have caught her just as they were Apparating,” Severus grumbled.  
  
I heard Ginny make a disapproving noise. “Emergency medicine is not my field, Pro-Severus, she should have been taken straight to St. Mungo’s, or a Muggle hospital. Did you do something to resuscitate her?”  
  
Severus said nothing and I did not know if he had answered by a gesture or not. Ginny sighed.  
  
“Damn Parkinson…” Ginny muttered. “My git brother is marrying her next week, and I doubt Hermione knew. Not that it matters…”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
I did not want Ginny to talk about Ron. For six years, the Weasley women and I had had a tacit agreement not to talk about Ron—ever. I certainly did not want Severus to hear about Ron, it was not relevant to anything.  
  
“Hermione doesn’t talk to Ron and vice versa, and to have Parkinson here… I’m not going to ask to know what is going on, why Harry has been running around because of you, but if Parkinson is here, be sure that Ron won’t be far behind…”  
  
I wanted to open my eyes and confront Ginny, as it was, I could only listen.  
  
“And that would be a problem,” Severus said simply.  
  
“It would be a disaster. Ron and Hermione were together for a few years after the War. They were partners in the MLE, and they fought like Kneazles and Knarls. Then Hermione got pregnant, and…”  
  
Nothing more was said for a long moment and I wondered what silent gestures was made.  
  
“It ended, not exactly well, but it ended,” Ginny finished.  
  
Severus said nothing, but I felt his fingers skim along the back of my right hand.  
  
“I’ve stopped the bleeding.”  
  
“Is there anything I can do?” Greg’s voice called out, and I realized he had not been in the room during Ginny’s explanation.  
  
“See that Kreacher prepares a bed with clean linens,” Severus said softly.  
  
“And a basin with clean water and towels,” Ginny added. “I could cast Cleansing Charms, but they aren’t enough for this…” she whispered, to Severus, I supposed.  
  
Severus’ movement made a noise and I heard Greg walk away.  
  
“I’ll Levitate her up the stairs,” Severus uttered.  
  
“I’ll see to Ms. Fancourt. You did a bang up job with her…”  
  
Silence again.  
  
A pained whimper passed my lips as I felt my body being lifted magically, and then I felt Severus’ fingers on my brow. I heard nothing more, but felt that I was being moved. I could also sense Severus’ anger like a palpable nudge against my mind.  
  
When my body rested upon a soft mattress, Severus spoke.  
  
“Fool woman,” he snarled.  


* * *

  
  
  
  
I slept without dreaming, and when I was conscious, I still could not open my eyes and communicate. I was aware of Ginny, and her concern. I could feel her delicate hands moving over my body and a cool towel wiping my skin.  
  
“Your brother is here, Gin,” I heard a voice say softly and it took me a moment to realize it was Harry’s voice. “I have him in the drawing room.”  
  
It was then I opened my eyes. Which brother?  
  
I was lying in Sirius’ old room, morning light streaming in through the window.  
  
“Hermione, thank the gods,” Ginny said, bending over me as she sat on the edge of the bed.   
  
Harry’s face was soon in view, relief etched into his scarred brow. I tried to rise, but I only made it up to lean on my elbows.  
  
“Not so fast, luv,” Ginny cooed, helping me to lie back again. “You’re too weak for that yet.”  
  
I wanted to ask what had happened, but I knew, I had heard.  
  
“Parkinson?”  
  
My voice was a dry whisper and as Harry brought me a cup of water, I drank deeply.  
  
“Safe. She’s in the drawing room now with Ron. I’ve spoken to her,” Harry began to explain. “It will be alright, Hermione, she won’t say anything…”  
  
I lay my head back into the pillow. “The others? Ron cannot…”  
  
“They’re in the house, safe, he won’t see them.”  
  
I sighed, taking in the state of my body. I ached from head to toe, but the pain was negligible. The worst ache was in my chest, just below my breasts, and I assumed that was where the brunt of the Curse had hit me.  
  
“What does he know?” I asked, my voice stronger.  
  
Harry knelt by the bedside, and whispered. “The MLE was alerted to the attack in Helston. One of the agents alerted us.”  
  
I frowned. “Why would they do that? They attacked us…”  
  
Harry nodded. “It appears that one agent was not comfortable with their orders. Roger Davies has given his statement that they were to detain Pansy, an obvious lie. We have questioned Muggle witnesses, it is certain that you were attacked.”  
  
I stared at Harry for a moment, “Roger Davies was one of the agents who attacked?”  
  
Harry nodded, “Polyjuice…”  
  
I sighed. “And the others, I…”  
  
Harry grasped my left hand. “You won’t be charged. You were protecting Pansy, you won’t be charged,” he insisted.  
  
I closed my eyes. I had killed, and no matter how I tried to recall it in my mind, I would never be able to explain how without sounding mad.  
  
“You will be questioned, however, about your involvement…”  
  
“Pansy had covered for you,” Ginny added. “She says that you two met to discuss her wedding—to make some sort of amends since you and Ron were…” she trailed.  
  
“But Ron and Flint will want to know more details,” Harry added. “It is out of my hands, Hermione. I cannot have anything to do with this…”  
  
I opened my eyes. I understood. Harry was putting his own family in danger by harbouring the Knights of Walpurgis in his house, despite being one himself. The attack upon Parkinson and myself made me feel that once again, someone was a step ahead of us all.  
  
“Ron wants to speak with you,” Harry then said and I turned my face away.  
  
Ron.   
  
“You’ll have to tell him to wait, Harry,” Ginny hissed.  
  
“No,” I sighed. “It is better to get this over with now than later.”  
  
Besides, I wanted to gauge what Ron knew. Harry’s work in the MLE had always been with Death Eaters and related criminal investigation, just as mine had been with interrogation. Ron was the strategist, dealing with intelligence. If a conspiracy involving the Knights were active in the Ministry, surely it was not just contained to the Department of Intelligence.   
  
Ginny helped me don a dressing robe over the plain white night dress I had been put into after a long night of her spells and Severus’ potions to heal me. I was unsteady on my feet, weak, and Harry helped me walk with Ginny waddling ahead of us.  
  
When Harry and I entered the first floor drawing room, it was to find Pansy Parkinson sitting on a divan, her hair a mess of ebony waves, her dress suit rumpled. Marcus Flint stood near the window, thick arms cross before his chest, his back pressed into the windowsill. His red Auror robes were a bloody colour in the light from the window overlooking Grimmauld Square. And standing next to the small fireplace, elbow on the mantle, was Ron.  
  
He looked well. His crimson hair was longer, reminding me of Bill’s hair, but the thin and well-trimmed beard on his jaw made him appear older. His red robes fit him handsomely, as did the dark blue suit underneath. Ron no longer looked like the poor boy I knew with hand-me-down clothes. He was far better kempt than when we were together.  
  
Upon my entrance, Ron’s blue eyes widened slightly as he studied me, but before he could speak, Pansy had risen and rushed to me. Harry kept his arm tightly about my waist as Pansy grasped my hands, kissing them. I gaped slightly as her tears began to fall.  
  
Between her gasping sobs, she thanked me for saving her life, among other things. I tried to smile, but the effort was tiring. Over Pansy’s head, I watched both Ron and Flint stand straighter, donning their official Auror personas. I knew Ron would never be thanking me for saving the life of his future wife…  
  
Harry begged Pansy to step aside, which she did, but held my right hand, helping me to sit on the divan. It was if the world had turned upside down with Pansy holding my hand, sitting next to me as if I were her greatest friend. Harry had moved to speak to Ginny who all the while had deposited herself in an armchair near the door.  
  
“Don’t you dare say anything rude, Ronald Weasley,” Pansy snarled when Ron moved forward to stand before us. At Pansy’s words, Ron was slightly taken aback, his blue eyes softening at the sight of Pansy. “She saved my life last night. If it had not been for her, there would be a funeral next week and not a wedding!”  
  
I heard Ginny snicker softly. Ron’s face reddened as he glanced to his sister. Clearing his throat, he began.  
  
“I am glad that you are alright, Pansy, but I’m not here to thank Granger…”  
  
The icy, clinical nature in which he said my name made my chest hurt, not from the lingering effects of a close range Curse, but from sorrow.  
  
“I, we,” Ron said, glancing to Flint, “are here to take Granger’s statement.”  
  
I turned my eyes away and to my hand in Pansy’s lap. She squeezed my fingers gently, and I knew then that Pansy was willing to protect me in some manner. The reason why eluded me.  
  
Flint withdrew a notebook and Dicta-quill from his robes and set it on the windowsill beside him. Ron stepped back to sit in the only empty armchair in the room, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his large hands clasped. The posture was reminiscent of the day he told me that he could no longer stay with me, that he could not bear the pain of the loss of our child…  
  
“Let it be noted that Hermione Jean Granger is present in the company of Pansy Tamsin Selwyn Parkinson, Ginerva Potter, and Harry James Potter in Mr. Potter’s home of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London. Dictation taken by Marcus Reginald Flint. Ronald Bilius Weasley, conducting the interview. This being the thirtieth day of April, 2010.   
  
Do you consent to give your statement, Miss Granger?”  
  
“Yes,” I whispered, my eyes meeting Ron’s. Ron blinked and then nodded to Flint.  
  
“Miss Parkinson has given her statement to the events of the night before in Helston, Cornwall. She has explained that you and she were meeting in an establishment called Blue Anchor Inn, when three men entered your private parlour and attacked you.”  
  
“Yes,” I whispered again, feeling Pansy squeeze my fingers again.  
  
“Previous to the attack, why had you come to Helston to meet with Miss Parkinson?”  
  
I swallowed. Ron did not look at me, but at my bare feet under the hem of my dark blue dressing gown Ginny had given to me to wear.  
  
“It was to discuss your impending nuptials, Mr. Weasley,” I uttered, stressing the honorific before Ron’s surname. “Pansy wanted to confer with me…”  
  
I stopped, frowning.  
  
“Are you the right person to be doing this?” I then asked.  
  
Ron’s eyes narrowed as they moved to my face. “I have been put in charge of this investigation, Granger, not because my fiancée was involved, but because an agent of the Department of Intelligence is now dead. However, if you wish for Flint to take your statement, it can be done…”  
  
I mimicked his expression. I could feel anger from him; see it in the slight furrowing of his brow and the tightening of his jaw. He was barely able to contain that anger.  
  
“She wanted to confer with me, to tell me of your wedding, as a gesture that she held no ill feelings toward me due to our past relationship,” I continued. “It was a kind gesture, and as we were beginning to leave, that was when the door burst open. I was knocked back. Two men approached Pansy; the third man cast several Stunners at me. I defended myself, and Pansy.”  
  
I paused, glancing to Pansy who was shaking uncontrollably, her eyes upon our hands in her lap.  
  
“The closest man to Pansy moved to Curse her. I suppose I Apparated just before her, to shield her…”  
  
“One agent has described that you had your wand knocked away, and that in defence, you somehow cast wandlessly, a Curse that caused fire to engulf one of the agents,” Ron supplied. His words were slightly stilted, and I knew that he remembered…  
  
I nodded. “It was instinctual magic. I knew that the agent was trying to cast a Killing Curse…”  
  
Ron’s eyes flickered to Pansy and I watched Pansy nod. She must have told Ron the same thing.  
  
“I Summoned my wand. I told Pansy to hold tight to me, there was no way out of the parlour, and I knew that we had to Apparate somewhere safe. Just as we were about to go, the agent who had tried to Stun me cast. By the time we were in the Square outside, I had not realized I was hurt.”  
  
I had told the basic story, and fell silent. Pansy squeezed my fingers again.  
  
“Why did you come to Grimmauld Square, to this house?”  
  
I frowned. Surely, Ron knew, but I knew I had to state the reason for the records.  
  
“I’ve been staying with the Potters for the last few weeks…”  
  
“Is it true that your department at the Ministry has been dissolved and that you are currently unemployed.”  
  
I ground my teeth before answering. “Yes.”  
  
“And that you have been seen in Auror regalia in the company of an unknown wizard in Hogsmeade and Hogwarts?”  
  
I took a breath, hoping to quell my growing anger.  
  
“Seen by whom, may I ask? What does that have to do with the attack on myself and Pansy last night?”  
  
Ron said nothing, but his eyes burned into my face.  
  
“There is also the question as to your involvement of the illegal removal of Ministry property from a seized house in Lambeth…”  
  
“Enough!”  
  
It was Pansy, but her voice had taken on a forceful tone despite the trembling of her lips and limbs.  
  
“I may not know the laws like you, Ronald Weasley, but if you are to question her about anything other than the attack last night, she should have legal representation present.”  
  
I balked, as did Ginny. My eyes studied Pansy’s face and the hardening of her dark eyes.  
  
“Hermione Granger nearly died last night, trying to save my life. She does not deserve this…”  
  
Ron was obviously surprised at his fiancée, but as he turned his attention to me, his anger seemed to double. I could tell he wanted to complain, his jaw working unpleasantly. However, he seemed to swallow his anger and speak smoothly again.  
  
“Pardon me,” he grumbled. “I’ll continue with questions pertaining to last night…”  
  
I bit the inside of my cheek. The MLE was aware of my involvement in taking Arcturus’ portrait. I knew that it would was only a matter of time before they figured that detail out. All the same, Severus and I had been noticed in Hogsmeade. I doubted Minerva would say anything to the Ministry or Rosmerta for that matter. Both women were known for their discretion. It led me to think that perhaps I was being watched, even before Severus returned. If so, why had the MLE been notified? If there was some conspiracy to rout the Knights of Walpurgis, to find the secret of Merlin’s prison, why bother bringing Aurors into the plot?  
  
“Did you recognize any of the three who attacked you?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Did they speak to you?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Can you think of any reason why agents of the Department of Intelligence would want to detain you?”  
  
I frowned. “Is that what they are saying?”  
  
Ron stuttered. “Y-yes. They wanted to detain you and Miss Parkinson for questioning concerning the murder of Horace Slughorn.”  
  
I felt Pansy stiffen and Harry’s eyes bore into the side of my head.  
  
“They made no mention of such a thing, in fact, if a Stunner was a formal greeting, I would say that they were there to do more than ‘detain’ us, Mr. Weasley,” I growled. “Besides, I have not seen Professor Slughorn in years…”  
  
“It is reported that you were asking about him only last week in Hogsmeade.”  
  
We  _had_  been followed, or surveilled in some fashion.  
  
“Then your information is incorrect, Mr. Weasley.”  
  
“Then why were you in Hogsmeade?”  
  
I drew my hand from Pansy’s and started to stand. Immediately, Harry was at my side, steadying me.  
  
“I have friends in Hogsmeade, Mr. Weasley. Now, if you are accusing me of something, do it now so I can start arranging for legal representation,” I snarled.  
  
Ron rose as well, his face flushing. “You have killed an agent of the Department of Intelligence; it is my duty to investigate everything leading up to that point, Granger!”  
  
His anger was beginning to vent, and I raised my chin although the energy it took to stand had nearly drained me. Of all people, I was not going to let Ron Weasley’s feeble attempts at interrogation to make me reveal anything. Someone had proverbially ‘lit a fire’ under him as means to ascertain my motives and movements.  
  
“I have told you the truth of the matter, Weasley. I was defending Parkinson, and she will attest to this fact. The matter of the attack should be taken up with the Head of the Department of Intelligence, Percy Weasley. If anyone should be investigated, it should be him,” I growled, and immediately regretted it as I swayed, falling into Harry.  
  
“That’s enough, Ron,” Harry muttered. “You have enough!”  
  
Pansy was then on her feet, placing herself between Ron and me.  
  
“End the dictation, Flint,” Ron snarled.  
  
Flint, who had been watching and listening, seemed amused and ended the Charm, taking up his notebook and quill and slipping it into his cloak. He walked about the perimeter of the drawing room and disappeared out the door. Ginny, who had been sitting silently all the while, followed.  
  
“I don’t know what is going on here, but I swear by Merlin, Granger, this is not over!”  
  
The threat did not bother me. I was far too exhausted to care. However, Pansy retorted for me in a dangerous whispering that turned Ron’s attention from me to her.   
  
“Let me help you,” Harry whispered.  
  
I was dragging my feet as Harry helped me to the door. In the corridor, Harry hauled me up into his arms, and I did not protest. He carried me back to Sirius’ old room where Ginny waited.  
  
“I don’t know if I’ve made things worse or not,” I muttered as Harry laid me in bed.  
  
“It doesn’t matter now,” Harry whispered, pulling the sheets over me. “You need to rest.”  
  
I frowned. “It does matter, Harry. Someone is using Ron…”  
  
Ginny snorted. “Pansy will sort it out.”  
  
I shook my head, letting it roll on the pillow. “Someone has set Ron onto this path, using Pansy as a way in…” I whispered.  
  
“Percy?” Harry suggested, sitting on the edge of the bed as Ginny moved about the room to fill a basin in a stand near the door with water. I supposed Kreacher had brought the basin in the room while I slept.  
  
“Maybe. It  _is_  his department, his agents. Percy would never have so little control over his people…”  
  
“He could be being used as well,” Harry said.  
  
“No, not Percy,” Ginny said, moving slowly to the bedside with the basin and a towel over her arm. She set the basin on the bedside table and shooed Harry away to take his place on the bed. “Percy was used enough during the War. After Fudge, Percy has become his own man.”  
  
Harry paced, rubbing his chin. “We need to get Ron out of the house…”  
  
Ginny nodded and began wiping my brow of sweat with a damp towel. “Considering you were dead for almost half an hour, you’re doing better that I thought possible,” Ginny whispered, turning the conversation away from the ever-elusive answer of who was responsible for the growing death and destruction around us.  
  
Harry quickly left the room and Ginny sighed.  
  
“The less I know, the better,” she said with a smirk.  
  
“Very true, Gin,” I whispered.  
  
Ginny leaned down and pressed a kiss to my brow. “If anyone will figure all this out and set things right, it will be you,” she whispered. “I have faith in that.”  
  
I wanted to smile reassuringly, but I still felt as though I might die.  
  
I did not, however, and life, confusing life, continued.

 

 


	11. XI

**XI**  
  
Severus’ pacing woke me. He moved before the foot of the bed, back and forth in long strides. In the candlelight, he looked different, his hair trimmed, his clothes altered with a baggy black jumper over his usual trousers.  
  
As he paced, he twirled his wand between his long white fingers. I could see that he was brooding over something, an expression that I remembered so well from my schooldays.  
  
“Stop it,” I croaked from the bed.  
  
Severus stumbled in his pacing and whirled to gaze down on me. He glided to the bedside and gently sat down, his brooding expression unchanged.  
  
“I am going to live,” I wheezed, shifting in the bed so sit up slowly. Severus’ hands helped me before pressing a cup from the bed stand to my lips. I drank, but let my eyes study his face and the deep crease between his brows.  
  
“We were listening to Weasley’s questioning,” he said when I finished drinking. “It took everything to keep Mr. Goyle from rushing down from the attic to pummel Weasley.”  
  
I smirked. “How did you manage to hear everything?”  
  
Severus sighed as he put the empty cup on the bed stand next to the pitcher of water. “Extendable Ears, it seems Fannie likes gag products…”  
  
I rolled my eyes and slouched forward. It felt as if my ribs were bruised, but the pain was bearable.  
  
“We have spoken, all of us, and we have decided our next course of action.”  
  
I blinked. “All of us?”  
  
Severus smirked. “Parkinson, after a bit of shock and awe, has accepted the fact that Horace Slughorn came to tell her about her destiny. After her incoherent sobs, the girl seemed to think I was god, or a priest—she confessed her undying love for me.”  
  
I snorted. “Do you even remember her?”  
  
“Vaguely. I remember more of her than of you.”  
  
“So you played upon her schoolgirl crush to make her agree to her role in all of this?” I asked with a impressed smirk.  
  
“Basically, but I think it was more than that. You saved her life. Parkinsons believe in life debts…”  
  
I sniffed. A life debt. I had never intended something so serious. Pettigrew’s life debt to Harry had saved Harry, but killed Pettigrew…  
  
“What did you have her do?”  
  
Severus straightened. “Look into who has set Weasley onto you, us. Parkinson was never the cleverest Kneazle in my House, but she has a way of culling the truth out of people.”  
  
I smirked. Pansy Parkinson was a bully in school, but she was also a great manufacturer of rumours, spinning rumours that were more often fact than not. Parkinson scared most Gryffindor girls, which was something to be respected.  
  
“Then there was Mr. Goyle, who seemed to scare the truth into Parkinson after her initial denials.”  
  
Slytherins, I never could totally understand the strange dynamic of that House. It was a strange mixture of loyalty and fear that cohered the House into one.  
  
“And the others?”  
  
Severus shifted on the bed. “Fannie will have to stay here. Goyle will have to go back to Glasgow for a time, sort his affairs, then to Hogsmeade to do some digging, but then he is going to Ashbrittle at Fannie’s behest, as means of protection for her. Potter will keep us apprised of official Ministry movements, look into Percy Weasley…”  
  
“You realise how dangerous it is for Goyle to be going out into the open?” I asked, stuck on Greg’s task before anything else Severus had said.  
  
Severus nodded. “But if he doesn’t, whoever is trying to eliminate us will eventually trace him here. The protection of this house will not last indefinitely.”  
  
I agreed. I could see Severus’ logic. If the Knights were somehow tracked to Grimmauld Place… Images of destruction, the Potter children somehow injured, flashed through my brain. It made me shiver.  
  
“And what about you?” I asked finally.  
  
Severus smirked and he shifted on the bed, his hand moving to rest on the other side of my legs so that we were face to face.  
  
“We are going to Somerset ahead of Fannie and Goyle. We are going to start there, on the trail to find Aberforth Dumbledore.”  
  
Fannie’s words came back to like a far, distant memory. To find the path…  


* * *

  
  
  
Of all the surviving generation, Pansy and Aberforth was missing from the room. Pansy had vowed to keep us apprised of anything new, and if she were needed, she would come. We sat in the front room, facing the portraits. I sat next to Fannie, she faring better than I was as far as health went. It had almost been two days since I died, and the pain of the Curse upon my body was gone, but my energy was still low. Fannie let me rest against her as she was wedged between Greg and me.  
  
On the opposite couch, Severus and Harry sat as far apart as the chesterfield would let them.  
  
Harry had just finished telling us the results of Horace’s autopsy. Poison. The mechanics of how Horace, a Potions Master, was poisoned were still a mystery. In addition, the fact that his body ended up in Portleven harbour only compounded the mystery. There were theories, of course, but nothing concrete.  
  
“Then, that’s it. We’re really going to have to start moving,” Greg sighed.  
  
“It is the only way. We cannot keep staying here, waiting for something to happen,” Harry answered remorsefully. “Percy Weasley is going to have come up with some answers…”  
  
“To rule him out?” I asked.  
  
Harry nodded. “It is his men, it is his responsibility.”  
  
I said nothing more. I had already asserted that Percy, my friend, was hiding something from me, but that was not a true implication that he was responsible… I sighed. I knew I did not want to think that my own friend would send his agents to harm me, but still, I needed to know what Percy was hiding. I would have to confront him again, more directly than before.  
  
“I will try and see what the word is up north,” Greg said softly, “Then I’ll make arrangements to take Fannie back to Ashbrittle.”  
  
“It will be safer for me there, for all of you,” Fannie added. “Severus and Hermione, you’re welcome to stay at the cottage if you need a place to land during the search.”  
  
Severus nodded. “Somerset is not so large.”  
  
“Aberforth surely started from Ashbrittle, as we had arranged if something should begin…” Fannie trailed. “The path starts there.”  
  
I licked my lips as the room fell silent again. The portraits had been listening all the while, but had attributed little to conversation.  
  
“We start in the morning,” Severus announced, rising from the couch. “We still need to discuss some means of communicating safely…”  
  
I rose from the couch, and on unsteady legs passed by Severus, who paused in his speech. I could feel all eyes upon me, and I stopped at the door, muttering ‘loo’ to Harry who was closest to the door.  
  
I limped out into the corridor, moving in the direction of the downstairs lavatory, but continued on to the kitchen. I could still hear the timbre of Severus’ voice as I descended into the kitchen, where I found Kreacher padding about the scullery, muttering to himself as usual.  
  
I glanced about the kitchen, finding one of Harry’s old leather jackets hanging on a peg near the door of the scullery. I Summoned it wandlessly and donned it. Kreacher paid no attention to me, again, as usual, as I limped to the fireplace at the far end of the kitchen.  
  
It was a weekend morning and I knew that Percy would be at home at his Islington flat. I had come unannounced to his lush flat before, I doubt that he would be too shocked to see me. Adjusting my wand holster over my armoured shirt, I zipped the worn black leather jacket, tucking my low ponytail into the collar.  
  
I could hear Harry’s voice, distantly. It seemed there was an argument, but it was enough distraction for me to Floo to Diagon Alley and then slip into the city among Muggles. If I were being followed, I would know in the tight confines of a Tube train. I had forgone going out the front door, surely someone would have noticed…  
  
I knew that going out alone would be risky, but Percy would never talk if I approached him with someone else. Percy trusted me, and although I had betrayed that trust, I knew that I did not confront him alone, I might not learn anything.  
  
And so, grabbing a handful of Floo powder, I announced my destination, a place that would not arouse suspicion except for one man.  
  
Number 93 Diagon Alley.  


* * *

  
  
  
Angelina Weasley stifled a scream when I stepped out of the fireplace in the back workroom of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. I immediately pressed a finger to my lips, stepping toward her. Angelina’s dark eyes widened for a moment and then narrowed.  
  
“Merlin, Hermione,” she swore.  
  
“I’m sorry, Angie, I’m just passing through,” I whispered, moving to her side at the work table where she had been Charming the wrapping on boxes of Patented Daydream Charms. I noted that George had changed the cover picture from a young couple on the deck of a pirate ship to a young couple dressed in medieval costume, the young man slaying a dragon with the damsel watching in awe. It was reminiscent of St. George slaying the dragon, but I thought no more of it as I turned to Angelina.  
  
“Is something wrong? Should I get George from the front?”  
  
Ever since the War, Angelina was always anxious when one of us—Harry, Ron, or myself—showed up unexpected to the shop.  
  
“No, no,” I whispered. “I just need to slip out unnoticed, I really did not want to bother either of you.”  
  
Angelina studied my face for a moment, her dark eyes crinkling, obviously suspicious of the dark rings under my eyes and my pale complexion. I had caught sight of myself earlier that morning, and I knew that I could do with a few glamours to hide my recent set back in health.  
  
“Give me a minute, I’ll distract George,” Angelina whispered.  
  
I sighed in relief as Angelina moved away and to the curtained partition into the front shop. She glanced back at me, her beautiful lips pursed. I only hoped she would keep my coming and going to herself.  
  
I waited, moving to the curtain and peeking into the busy shop. George was behind the counter, watching as a few children too young to be at Hogwarts laughed at the tiny pygmie puffs near the front window and a few boys were gawking at the Skivving Snackboxes on the far wall. There were also several adults, mostly young women studying the expanded line of WonderWitch products.  
  
Angelina was moving to George, and when she began whispering in George’s good ear. I acted as the married couple turned away from the goings on in the shop. I did not bother to look at the Weasleys or any of the customers, slipping out the front door just as a family were coming in.  
  
Diagon Alley was busy for May Day, and there were banners and garlands hanging overhead, announcing sales and specials at the various shops for the holiday. As I wove through the crowd, I realized it was Beltane, and that evening, Walpurgis Night. I smirked to myself as I neared the Leaky Cauldron.  
  
The smirk faded however as I felt eyes upon the back of my head, a sensation that made me shiver. I veered toward the front of Quality Qudditch Supplies where there was an outside bin of discounted toque hats for various British and Irish Quidditch teams. I snatched a Puddlemere United cap, pressing a galleon into the outdoor vendor’s hand, muttering that I did not need the change. Slipping the blue knit cap over my hair haphazardly, I walked on, ducking under the arm of a gentleman carrying a large cage from Eeylops, and falling in behind a group of young men in dark Ministry robes. I recognised Ernie Macmillan in the group and realised that they were weekend workers at the Department of Magical Transportation, perhaps on an early lunch break.  
  
I slipped through the group as they stopped in front of the apothecary nearest the entrance to Diagon Alley, and through the gateway into the back of the Leaky Cauldron. I did not feel the weight of eyes upon me. I limped through the dark pub to the street door to Charing Cross Road. Once I was on the street, I took a cleansing breath, but only paused for a moment before heading to Charing Cross Tube station.  
  
By the time I was on the Tube train, standing near the door, I adjusted my hat, pushing a few stray strands of hair from my face to look about. The Northern line could get me directly to The Angel station, but standing at the far end of the car was a face pointed in my direction, and I considered where I could get off the train.  
  
I did not know the man, but by the dull eyes and face under a bowler hat, I knew he was an agent of the Department of Intelligence. He was not looking at me, but at the woman sitting in the seat next to the door. She was older, and surprisingly, resembled Fannie.  
  
The train slowed at Holborn station and I stepped out of the way as the woman next me exited the train. The agent exited as well and I watched from closing door as the woman was followed from the platform. When the train moved again, I rolled the edges of the hat down to my eyebrows and turned my collar up. Again, I scanned the train. Muggles sat or stood silently.  
  
I got off at Euston station, feeling that I had not been followed, and walked—limped—through the Underground tunnel to the other side of the Northern line and boarded a train to The Angel station. My eyes moved all the while, scanning indistinct faces, searching for some sensation that alerted me that I was being followed by a witch or wizard.  
  
As I rode up the long escalator to the street, I began arranging my thoughts. If I wanted to learn anything from Percy, I was sure I would have to give up some information concerning what I had been doing since I left his office at the Ministry. I would not speak of the Knights, but I would address my current state of health and the involvement of his agents.  
  
I paid little mind to the Muggles on the street and their quick glances toward me. I limped and lumbered along the street, dressed in black, with a cap pulled low over my brow. I was sure I looked slightly dangerous, but it kept the Muggles’ from looking long.  
  
It had started to rain by the time I stood in the lobby of Percy’s building, his flat on the fourth floor. I considered taking the lift, but opted for the stairs instead. I winced with every step, feeling the strain on my ribs and lower back. It took about ten minutes for me to ascend, having to stop at every landing to hold my side and breathe through the ache.  
  
I pounded on Percy’s door, flat 402, and waited.   
  
The door opened and inside stood Percy Weasley, damp, and wrapped in a bathrobe, his hair dripping onto his terry cloth clad shoulders. I noted that the robe was a dark red, and then stepped into the flat before Percy could speak. His face betrayed his surprise, which put me on guard.  
  
I pulled the cap off my head and tossed it on the Italian silk sofa in the front room with windows overlooking the street below. Percy’s apartment was a mixture of Muggle modern and Magical style. I had always felt comfortable in the white with red trim décor. On more than one occasion, I had slept on the sofa before the fireplace, too drunk to safely make my way home.  
  
As I moved to the windows, glancing down onto the residential street, I felt satisfied, but still closed the sheer curtains. I then unzipped Harry’s old jacket, withdrew my wand, and turned to Percy who stood in the middle of the room, trying to hold his robe shut.  
  
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Hermione,” Percy drawled sarcastically. “Do you mind if I put something on before you explain to me why you are here?”  
  
I smirked and nodded. As Percy moved through the room toward the master bedroom, I allowed myself to look about. There were photos on the walls near the door, mostly of his family, and one of the two of us during an outing to Hyde Park to a concert several years ago. That photograph was the only one that did not move. It was the centerpiece, I realised, and I frowned.  
  
Percy returned, dressed in dark grey trousers and black jumper, his hair still damp, his glasses missing.  
  
“You shouldn’t be so surprised to see me,” I began, “Unless you expected me to be dead or gravely injured.”  
  
Percy grimaced. “I know what has happened…”  
  
“And I should be pressing charges against your department, Perce,” I growled, moving to the sofa and sitting slowly next to my discarded cap.  
  
Percy moved to sit next to me, swiping my cap out of the way. “It was not supposed to happen the way it did,” Percy said and there was an edge of anxiety in his voice. He leaned toward me and for a moment, I thought he was going to touch me in some familiar way, but at the twitch of my wand in my hand, he pulled back.  
  
“I need some sort of explanation, Perce,” I muttered, studying his face out of the corner of my eye. “After what Harry told me about the ‘raid’ on Malfoy Manor, one of your agents being killed, and now…now that I have…”  
  
Percy did touch me then, his hand curling about my right shoulder. “You were not supposed to be in Helston when my agents were to apprehend Parkinson,” he said softly. “You were caught in the cross-fire…”  
  
I could not let my face show my disbelief at Percy’s words. I bit the inside of my lower lip.  
  
“I haven’t told Ron, but Parkinson is our main suspect to Slughorn’s murder.”  
  
I cocked my head, stretching the muscles in my neck. “I don’t believe it,” I muttered.  
  
Percy sighed, and misunderstanding the intent of my words, continued. “It will kill Ron to know… It will destroy Petroc Parkinson’s already sketchy reputation as well.”  
  
I closed my eyes. “Has your department become part of the MLE as well?”  
  
Percy’s hand slipped from my shoulder and I opened my eyes to see him staring at my wand. “You know very well that we specialise in investigations dealing with the security of our society, Hermione. We only point the MLE in the right directions…”  
  
“Don’t play coy, Perce. Your ‘agents’ have been acting more like a ‘secret police’ than those gathering intelligence on security. The law states that your men are to be accompanied by Aurors when detaining suspects or apprehending known criminals…”  
  
“The law is changing,” Percy growled, rising from the sofa to stand near the window. My eyes followed him. “It is changing with the times.”  
  
I narrowed my eyes. “What does  _that_  mean?”  
  
Percy ran his fingers through his damp crimson hair and slouched against the windowsill. “Even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn’t, Hermione.”  
  
I rose as well, slowly, my left side burning. I had to change my approach.  
  
“Ron questioned me yesterday at Harry’s. He implied that your department might be looking at me for some infraction…”  
  
Percy closed his eyes. “Your signature was detected at the Lestrange House, along with another signature that cannot be identified…” he whispered. When he opened his eyes, they blazed. “What have you been doing? Who have you been with?”  
  
I took a step back, instinctually.  
  
“Nothing. I’m just…” I faltered.  
  
Percy’s eyes moved to the rug under his bare feet. “I’ve read your statement, why you met Parkinson, but it seems everything that has been coming across my desk has something to do with you…”  
  
I said nothing, sinking to the sofa again, wincing.  
  
“If you have anything to do with…” Percy trailed, shaking his head. “Why did you come here?”  
  
I took a breath. “Your agent nearly killed me, Perce, and I killed one of them. I need to know that you aren’t responsible for the rumours I have been hearing.”  
  
Yes, rumours, it would be the only way to gauge or begin to rule my friend out of the running of the next Dark Wizard of the age.  
  
Percy moved back to the sofa, but did not sit next me. Instead, he sat on the small glass coffee table before me, his hand moving to my knees in a familiar gesture.  
  
“What rumours?”  
  
I sighed, dramatically. “Rumours that Horace Slughorn may have been murdered by your agents in order to silence him. Rumours that Perpetua Fancourt is missing after your men killed Muggles in Glasgow in pursuit of her…”  
  
Percy’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you hear this?”  
  
I shook my head and said nothing. Percy licked his lips, and I waited for an explanation. Again, I could see the tightness around his mouth, and could feel how his fingers clenched about my knees. It was not evasion I saw, but anger.  
  
“Parkinson was the last person to see Slughorn alive that is why she is a suspect. It is true that my men had been following him…he had sensitive information regarding matters of security…”  
  
I wanted to roll my eyes. ‘Sensitive information regarding matters of security’ was a cop out. It was a phrase associated with the department’s concept of ‘plausible deniability.’ I may have been a low ranking employee in the department, but I was not blind to how the organization worked. It was the magical equivalent to the American Central Intelligence Agency, or Britain’s MI6.  
  
“As for Perpetua Fancourt—there was an unfortunate incident in Glasgow. My agents moved to detain her for questioning when she fled. There was an altercation in the presence of Muggles, and since then, we have been unable to locate Fancourt.”  
  
There was no mention of Greg or the tracking spell; of course, I did not expect Percy to mention that fact. I did not bother to ask why the Department of Intelligence wished to detain Fannie for questioning; I would receive that same lame answer.  
  
“These rumours… I would like very much to know where they came from.”  
  
I shrugged. “You know how rumours are, Perce,” I said softly. “I just want to know why. Why was I attacked? If you read my statement, surely you know that there was no provocation for what you men did to us…”  
  
Percy’s grip on my knees tightened. “I don’t know… I mean, I know there was no provocation. There was no order to forcefully act, the Muggles were never to know…” Percy trailed, his eyes growing distant. Then, in almost a whisper: “I’m losing control. At every turn, I have been blocked, superseded, and all the blame is left on me.”  
  
His face had softened, the tightness gone from his mouth. He took a deep, cleansing breath and met my eyes.  
  
“I told you the day your department was dissolved that someone was orchestrating a shift in power from higher in the Ministry. It has only gotten worse since you left.”  
  
I nodded.  
  
“It has extended to the MLE and the Aurors. I have lost all control over my own agents, their allegiances lie elsewhere, and I am still trying to learn why. All I know is that it started with you.”  
  
I blinked. I wanted to tell my friend, the one man who had supported me the most after Ron and the miscarriage, everything. Harry had always been a close friend, but Percy had, in so many ways, been my confidante. I could keenly feel the tear in my soul, I did not know if I could trust Percy when his own agents had wrecked so much havoc…  
  
“All I do know is that I would never have you come to any harm,” Percy whispered, and he touched my cheek. His touch made my insides squirm. “Whatever it is you are doing, you need to stop.”  
  
I frowned. Did Percy really not know what was happening?  
  
“I’m doing what I must in order to survive. I cannot help it if it involves me nearly being killed by  _your_  men,” I grumbled.  
  
Percy smirked. “Trouble follows you, luv, haven’t you realized that?”  
  
I said nothing; I did not find his words amusing.  
  
“Who is this ‘higher authority,’ do you think?” I ventured.  
  
Percy moved his hands from me and moved to sit next to me. “I have my suspicions. After I was given the Department of Intelligence, Gawain Robards was moved from the Head of the Aurors to a position closer to the Minister after the War. He protested my appointment. There was a Vergil Uruqhart in Hopkirk’s office that vied for my position. He often makes things difficult in meetings with the Minister, second guessing everything I have proposed, I’m sure he’s laughing his arse off right now…”  
  
I knew both men, and somehow I found it unlikely that they would have the power or the mental fortitude to orchestrate a covert movement against us. Us. I wondered when I had started thinking of myself as part of a cohesive unit.  
  
“Then there is the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, my old post after the War…”  
  
I bit my lower lip. Cormac McLaggen.  
  
McLaggen had been a nuisance in school, a boy that I avoided too many times. He was brilliant, but he was arrogant. He had managed to work his way up through the ranks of the Ministry in record time, and much as Percy had once been, he was a boot-licker. I had not followed McLaggen’s career, far too busy with my own to care. However, on every official memo, McLaggen, Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, was signed in an obnoxious flourish at the bottom of the page.  
  
“McLaggen has taken a personal interest in the operation of my department ever since I was given the post. Of course, he has also taken an interest in the MLE, having Gumboil and Shacklebolt send copies of every report to his office.”  
  
Shacklebolt, after his tenure as Minister, had returned to the MLE not long after I left. Shacklebolt was now working under Gumboil who had taken Robards’ post. Harry had been Head of the Aurors for approximately one year after the War before realising that paperwork out weighed the satisfaction of the job. Gumboil was then installed.  
The shuffling of appointments after the War had ceased to interest me.   
  
“Now, almost all information goes to McLaggen. I have my ideas as to the purpose, but if anyone is superseding my authority, he is the best candidate.”  
  
I glanced to Percy, whose eyes had grown distant. I wanted to say something to soothe the deep crease in his worried brow, but somehow I could not. I had not considered McLaggen, for various reasons. McLaggen was vying to be Minister; everyone in the Ministry knew this. McLaggen had worked his way to Hopkirk’s side, calling in every favour, pulling every string. As Senior Undersecretary, he had power, and with the right information, he could sway influences in his direction to secure a position as Minister.  
  
The corruption in the Ministry had not ended with Fudge.  
  
Percy opened his mouth to continue, but the activation of the Floo in the fireplace before us cut him off. The sound made me jerk in my seat on the sofa, and as a piece of parchment popped from the fire, an emergency notice, Percy rose to snatch the envelope from the air. He said nothing to me as he ripped into the envelope and withdrew a card. I watched as his blue eyes scanned the card, the dark crease deepening.  
  
“I’m sorry, Hermione, I’m going to have to cut this short,” he grumbled, wadding up the parchment and throwing it into the now empty fireplace. “I’ve been called to the Ministry on an emergency.”  
  
I did not ask what the emergency was, and rose jerkily, my back stiff. Percy moved from the room and into the master bedroom, returning, slipping a holster for his wand onto the belt of his trousers. He stalked to the window and peeked through the curtains to the street below. By his demenour, I could tell he was angry, but I made no comment.  
  
“I’ll hail a cab for us both. You don’t look well enough to Floo or Apparate.”  
  
I sighed. I wondered if I truly looked as terrible as I felt.  
  
Percy moved to the front door, drawing a corduroy jacket from the coat rack and donning it. I slowly adjusted Harry’s old coat on my shoulders and snatched up my cap off the sofa cushion, jamming it over my unruly hair.  
  
“You shouldn’t worry about these things,” Percy said in the lift down into the lobby. “Just get some rest…and I’ll speak to legal about compensation,” he finished somewhat sheepishly.  
  
I said nothing.   
  
We stepped out of the lift in the lobby, and Percy slowed his pace to match mine as we moved to the street door.  
  
“Are you still staying with Harry and Ginny?” Percy asked, opening the door for me.  
  
I inhaled. “Not for long. I mentioned I might travel before, I think I will do so soon.”  
  
Percy nodded as he moved to the sidewalk and together we began walking toward the cabstand at the end of the street. On our outings, Percy always insisted on taking a black cab through the city, seemingly fascinated with Muggle transport, as well as seeing London from the large back seat of the taxi.  
  
The street, despite the number of cabs waiting at the curb, was strangely desolate for a weekend. Percy did not seem to notice that we were the only people on the street as he stopped on the sidewalk before the cabstand, buttoning his jacket to obscure the wand on his belt.  
  
The sunlight broke over one of the blockhouses and fell upon our side of the street, and I noticed how red Percy’s hair seemed. And then, the world sped up on me, as several things happened simultaneously.  
  
It started with a loud cracking, one crack after another, and eight to ten figures in black appearing on the street forming a perimeter around Percy and myself, and the taxis. Next, there was an explosion of light and sound as the cab at the far end of the queue flew up into the air, blowing apart in a ball of fire and sound. Percy instinctually crouched, covering his ears, before rolling on the damp sidewalk to avoid a car door falling to where he had stood.  
  
I was frozen on the spot, but not for long. I was being pulled backward, a cold hand pressed over my mouth and nose. Even as Percy drew his wand and yelled something indistinct over the sound of an exploding gas tanks and the yells of fleeing cab drivers, I was being pulled back into a narrow alleyway between houses. When the bright colours of flying curses and hexes made the air electric with energy, I began to fight.  
  
My only thought was that I had been caught by one of the men in black.  
  
I fought to get to my wand, which was obscured by the zipped up jacket. When a strong arm wrapped about my chest, trapping my arms, I began to kick and bite. The instinct to fight overruled any aches or pains in my body, but my captor was too strong, and I soon could not see the street as I was pulled deeper into the alley and finally onto a lane behind the house block.  
  
I kicked at rubbish bins, anything to make a noise, to alert anyone to my plight. However, I was quickly released and thrown into a garden wall, my left shoulder slamming into brick. The force of the impact made me scream, and I crumpled to the lane, grasping my arm. I had dislocated my shoulder several times during my Auror career, but after so many years, the pain was just as bad.  
  
I coasted through the pain and sudden numbness to gaze up at my attacker. But before I could spit out a curse or begin screaming again, two pale hands grasped my face and thin lips moved over mine.  
  
Severus knelt before me, frantically kissing my face, before pulling away, his dark eyes hidden under the edge of the cowl of his cloak. His mouth was twisted into a painful snarl as he place a hand on my shoulder.  
  
“What are you doing here?” I hissed.  
  
He said nothing, and grasping my left arm, pulled. I screamed again, sweat staining the knit cap on my head, wetting my cheeks along with tears.  
  
I could not believe he would risk coming out into the open. He was so obviously out of place in his black cloak in broad daylight. However, the sounds of battle in the street reached my ears, and I began to shake. Severus pulled me to my feet, and then, wrapping a hard, pale arm about my shoulders, he crushed me against him.  
  
The world compressed around us, my face pressed into his jerkin-clad chest, and Islington disappeared.  


* * *

  
  
  
I stumbled away from Severus when the world normalized, falling on my backside on cold stone. I let myself fall further to lay on my back, gasping for breath. I then groaned, grasping my arm and banging the back of my head into the ground. Frustration was all I could muster beyond the pain.  
  
“You can never just well enough alone, can you, Granger?” Severus snarled.  
  
I stared up at a high, unfamiliar timbered ceiling.  
  
“Bloody Gryffindor arrogance…”  
  
His voice echoed in the space, and I began to realise where I was. I was lying on the floor of a church, stained glass windows streaming coloured light upon my face. There was a scent of ancient power far below me, and slowly I rolled to my right side to curl upon myself.  
  
The sound of Severus’ boots upon the stones rumbled against my ear and soon I was being sat into a church pew. He knelt before me again, his hands holding my face.  
  
“I can heal your shoulder, but do you have any other injuries?” he asked softly, his face still half hidden under the cowl of his cloak.  
  
“No,” I rasped. “Just heal my shoulder, please.”  
  
I wanted to know how he had known to follow me, when he had started to follow me, but as he helped me out of Harry’s old coat, I whimpered. Severus then unbuckled the holster about my chest and set it atop the jacket on the pew beside me. My only protest to Severus lifting my shirt up and over my head was the manner in which my shoulder twisted.  
  
Severus’ face did not flinch at the sight of the bruises on my skin or my simple white brassiere. I slouched on the pew as Severus finally pushed back his cowl before flicking his wand into his hand. It felt wrong to be half dressed in a church.  
  
Severus’ wand weaved over my shoulder and slowly the ache disappeared. Overall, I still felt sore and sick. After he finished, he pressed my shirt into my hands and rose, stalking away toward the rood and to the chancel.  
  
I donned my armoured shirt, pulling my hair from the collar. I began to look about the small church until my eyes fell upon the stained glass window in the chancel.  
  
“This is…” I began, the sound of my own voice startling me.  
  
Severus turned slowly from the window, his face impassive. “The safest place I could think to bring you.”  
  
I pressed my lips together. It was not just that…  
  
“You followed me.”  
  
He nodded, his dark curtain of hair falling about his pallid face. “Meeting Percy Weasley was foolish,” he muttered. “And evidently, dangerous.”  
  
I sighed. “I had to know…”  
  
“What did you learn?”  
  
I blinked and bowed my head. “Not much. I had a thought that perhaps he was the one…as it was his men who have been…” I trailed.  
  
Severus turned away, slipping his wand into the darkness of his cloak.  
  
“Has he implicated someone?”  
  
There was a sarcastic turn to his voice, and it made me frown.  
  
“Three possible, but he is set on one. Cormac McLaggen.”  
  
Severus scoffed.  
  
I reached for my holster and began to slip it over my shoulders. I winced and hissed as I straightened the leather straps, and Severus moved to me again, sitting next to me on the pew, his hands clasped before him.  
  
“That boy was far more concerned about reputation than intellectual pursuits. I doubt he knew that ‘Hogwarts, a History’ existed,” he muttered.  
  
“You remember him?”  
  
Severus sighed. “Oddly. I’ve been remembering many things lately, but nothing of importance. Except one thing, thanks to Fannie…”  
  
I glanced at the profile of his face out the corner of my eyes. His hooked nose, his greasy hair, the thin curl of derision upon his lips: it made me feel strange. Years ago, Severus Snape was my teacher, a man I trusted even though Harry and Ron did not. He was a man who was so distant that many times after the War, I wondered if he had existed at all. To me, Severus Snape was my idea of what sorrow truly was…  
  
“This place. I remembered this place, the window in the chancel. I remember the graveyard outside, and the yew tree.”  
  
I bowed my head. Severus sighed loudly through his mouth.  
  
“This place is special, a great secret. Muggles have tried to cover the power under our feet, obscure the power of the tree planted upon the tumulus. So far, the Muggles have helped to conceal the truth.  
  
You know the power of the yew, what it means to magical folk. Life, death, life…  
  
This is the Church of St. John the Baptist, built over a sacred well. Fannie wove a tale yesterday that this well was one of the three Wells of Wyrd, that the tree outside is part of a root of Yggdrasil, leading to Hel.”  
  
I smirked.  
  
“Rubbish, all of it. I am growing tired of tales and legends,” Severus whispered.  
  
But the fact remained. I had dreamt the tree.  
  
“Shouldn’t we get back?” I asked after the silence in the church became deafening.  
  
Severus shifted on the pew, making the wood crack. “No. We will simply start early.”  
  
I was not sure for a moment what Severus meant, but as he rose, his hand grabbing my wrist, I remembered. The church, the tree, Fannie, we were in Ashbrittle, Somerset. I allowed Severus to pull me along, as if I was some petulant child to the doors of the church, which with a flick of Severus’ wand, flew open.  
  
Into the churchyard, into the graveyard, past the massive Ashbrittle Yew, Severus pulled me through the ancient stones. Finally, just in the shadow of a hedgerow, he released me. I watched him pull up his cowl, and with a quick snatch, I was in his arms again, half hidden by his cloak.  
  
“And so it begins,” I thought I heard him say, and once again, the world compressed about us.

 

 


	12. XII

**XII**  
  
The first time I was injured in the line of duty, Ron had been furious. Rounding up Death Eaters composed the first years as my work as an Auror. I captured Rodolphus Lestrange three years after the Battle of Hogwarts, after tracking him to the far north to the Hebrides Islands. Ron was supposed to be with me, but had opted to follow what turned out to be a false lead to Aberdeen. It was a mistake to separate, but in those days, the Aurors were stretched thin over the British Isles.  
  
The MacFusty Clan cared for the Hebrides Blacks on the islands, and certain areas were warded with Anti-Apparition Charms. In such an area, I trapped Lestrange, dueling with him only several hundred metres from a dragon’s nest.  
  
We did not trade words. Hexes and Curses were enough. Lestrange fought desperately, and dangerously. I avoided the Killing Curse only by the speed of my legs and the spry manner of which I used to hold myself together. It was tiring. I was cursing Ron mentally as the duel lasted into the night, neither I nor Lestrange giving in. We had trampled the moorland, chasing each other, until; finally, as darkness settled, the battle was decided.  
  
It was the first time I realised that I had used elemental magic. Wandlessly lighting candles or starting fires in the grate were one matter, what I did to Lestrange was another. Casting a Stunner with my wand at close range, Lestrange slapped at my hand, the Stunner glowing into the dark sky. He kicked out, catching me in the stomach, but I took the blow and grabbed his wand hand. My fingers dug into his wrist as he kicked again, but I would not let go.  
  
Somehow, I ended up on the cold ground, Lestrange leering down at me, his face just visible in what light there was. Then it happened just as his free hand wrapped about my throat. Fire burst from my hand, running up the tattered sleeve of Lestrange’s coat to his lank hair.  
  
Lestrange’s scream was terrifying, the fire lighting his unshaven face. His wand seemed to turn to ash as soon as the fire touched it, and Lestrange was off me, rolling into the grass. I watched as the fire burned his arm, the side of his face, and I listened to his screams.  
  
For the first time in my life, I did nothing to save another human being. I wanted him to die. I wanted him to die like his wife and brother, in agony. In hindsight, this lack of empathy frightened me.  
  
“Damnit, Hermione! End the spell!”  
  
Ron’s voice brought me back. I did not know when or how he had appeared on the moor. I also did not know how to stop the fire that blazed a bright red orange and white. I turned my back, Lestrange’s screams beginning to sicken me.  
  
Stop.  
  
And it was over. I fell to my knees as Ron moved to Lestrange. My head pounded, my stomach churned, and I vomited—blood.  
  
The duel had done its damage, ribs, fingers, collarbone were broken. I had gashes in my back, on my face, and my jaw was fractured. The internal injuries were too numerous to remember, but I lay in St. Mungo’s for two weeks before I was able to walk again.  
  
Ron was angry with me for long after, and then, six months later, I was pregnant.  
  
I did not think long about how I had burned Rodolphus Lestrange so that half his face was melted or how his arm had to be amputated at the shoulder. I did not think of how it felt to wish the fire would turn him to an ashy shell.  
  
When I had saved Pansy Parkinson, I had acted on instinct, in order to save myself from the position in which I had placed myself. I stood before impending death, and I had turned the death away, branding fire to flesh and bone.  
  
As I sat before the small fireplace in Perpetua Fancourt’s tiny Somerset cottage, a chill passed through my bones. The fire before me was not the same as that which came from my hands. I studied my palms in the firelight, the dry skin in the lines and the new calluses on the backside of my knuckles.  
  
The fire in the fireplace was dry, hot, and lifeless. The fire I remembered engulfing the man in the Blue Anchor Inn had been alive, a part of me—my anger and fear made manifest.  
  
Elemental magic, every witch, and wizard could perform some. Whether it was to light a fire in my case, or the basic manipulation of the earth, as was the case with Neville Longbottom’s affinity with plants and soil, every magical being had some connection to the basic elements of life on earth. However, true elemental magic was rare, unheard of in the modern age. There were histories on various magical folk who could manipulate the wind, from gale force to gentle breeze. There were others who could summon water from a cloudless sky, or who could tame the North Sea.   
  
I did not want to believe that I could kill with a touch, if I wished.  
  
Severus was moving near the kitchen area of the one room cottage, searching the shelves for something, knocking cans of food to the floor. I glanced at him, knowing that he was angry. I, on the other hand, knew I was in shock.  
  
Harry had sent an owl from the Ministry, and Severus had let me read the hastily scribbled missive.  
  
_‘Attack in Islington, 3 Muggles dead, Percy dead, Ministry moving. More info soon be safe.’  
_  
Percy dead.   
  
I threw the note into the fire before me and there I sat still, even after the sun had set and Severus searched the cottage. I leaned into the brick next to the fire, wrought out. I dropped my hands to my lap.  
  
It was my fault. Percy was dead because of me. I should have never left Grimmauld Place. I should have never…  
  
“Stop it,” Severus hissed from where he stood by the small table in the kitchen area. His palms were pressed into the surface, his thin lips curled distastefully. “Stop it now!”  
  
I was crying, bone shaking sobs rattling every atom in my body. Even if I wanted, it would not stop. My teeth chattered in between the gasping. I could feel the tears on my cheeks as hot as the fire next to me. I had not let myself cry so hard since…  
  
“Enough!”  
  
I was hauled up from my place by the fire, Severus gripping my upper arms in a painful hold. I howled at the renewed pain in my body and tried to jerk away. When I was free, Severus grabbed for me again, but my hand flew, slapping him across the face. The sound was terrible as was the quickly growing red handprint on his sallow cheek.  
  
His eyes were bestial and cruel, his head forcefully turned by my strike, and out of the corners of his eyes, he stared. The anger, the sorrow, the futility, it shrank away.  
  
I grabbed his face and kissed him.  
  
Gods, I just wanted it all to either make sense or end. My hands moved from his face to his neck, down the leather jerkin over his chest to his waist. I did not keep track of where his hands went until I felt them upon my hips.  
  
I pulled away quickly, stumbling, my hand moving to my lips. I fell back into a wing-backed chair near the fire, and nearly tumbled to the floor.  
  
Severus’ dark eyes were wide, but as he studied my face, the back of my hand pressed against my lips, the dark eyes narrowed. The derision that had marked his face since Harry’s note returned.  
  
I did not want to see that face, I did not want to feel so separate from him as the cruel façade was reassembled. I stepped toward him again, and he took a step back, warning flashing in those twin chasms he had for eyes. Another step, it was his turn to fall back against a piece of furniture. The small kitchen table scarped upon stone floor.  
  
“Stop,” he whispered, but there was no pleading, no warning.  
  
His mouth crashed upon mine, and I could taste anise again, as if his tongue were coated in the licorice flavour. Hands moved, clothes and wands fell to the floor until I held my chest against his, following him back upon the tabletop. He pulled me closer and slowly we stood again, but I stood on the tips of my boots.  
  
Our lips parted, and we stared at each other through hazy eyes. We knew what it was—frustration, desperation pushed together. There were also the dreams. I could see it so clearly as if we were standing in the mist before the apple tree. I could see him in the yew tree just down the road from the cottage, half in, half out, like some strangely beautiful parasite working its way out of the ancient wood.   
  
I took his hand and stepped back, letting his eyes move over my bared breasts, the imperfect stretch marks near my hips just above the waistband of my dragon hide pants. He said nothing, but squeezed my fingers.  
  
The methods and details of how we landed in the large sleigh bed across from the kitchen area of the one room cottage were unimportant. All that mattered was that I could feel him above me, feel his skin against mine. It was real, more real than my dreams.  
  
The way he grasped my hair, pulling my head back to nip with crooked teeth at my throat, the way the hair on his chest rasped against my nipples—it was true. I groaned as his hips thrust against mine. There was no tenderness in this man, and I knew there really never had been.  
  
My fingers traced the scars long his back down to his buttocks. I felt the rumble of his moan against my breast. He slid his length against my damp lips, biting into the inside slope of my left breast.  
  
I could not breathe quick enough to feed my beating heart the air it needed. I was sweating, I was gasping, and my fingers could not stop from roaming. However, Severus grasped my wrist and slammed them painfully into the headboard with one large hand, while the other arm slipped under my left knee, pushing it over his shoulder.  
  
The sound of his teeth clenching broke my lustful daze, and the painful slide of penetration made me mouth open in a silent scream. I arched my back as he pushed inside, feeling as if he were rending me in two. He grunted into my shoulder when he could go no further.  
  
I could not decide whether to move my hips and perhaps get some pleasure out of the pain, or try to fight Severus Snape off my body.  
  
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please don’t.”  
  
My lips trembled at his words. I did not fight him. I could not.  
  
We were lying under the great limbs of a great tree, the mist swirling about us as we began to move. An obscured sun glinted on the perfect skins of large golden apples. I could smell the anise on his breath and the apples in the air.  
  
His cock throbbed against the walls of my barren womb, but as he pinned me down, bearing down upon me, my womb throbbed as well. I sobbed at every long stroke, and gasped at every wild thrust. He was unpracticed, almost clumsy, but I did not mind.   
  
It felt good. Professor Severus Snape, he was no longer. He was simply Severus, a man who had cheated death. He was just as lost as I was, trapped in a plot bigger than the both of us.  
  
My wrists were free. Severus planted his palms on either side of my head, his black hair swaying about his pallid face. His dark brow was furrowed, his thin lips parted. Severus Snape was frightening to behold with his eyes glowing like faint burning coals. I could not help but wrap my arms about his neck to kiss him.  
  
Moving together, my legs wrapped about his slender waist, and I broke the kiss to sigh. The sound made Severus falter, and he fell into my arms, breaking his rhythm. The fire in his eyes was extinguished, the spell broken. I held him tight against me, shifting my hips to support his weight.   
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into my ear.  
  
As quickly as our joining began, it ended with us both unsatisfied. I could feel him slipping out of me. I closed my eyes. I let Severus pull free of my embrace, rolling to lie beside me, and once again, we were in the small, dusty cottage in Somerset.

* * *

  
  
  
  
I slept fitfully, but I could not remember dreaming. It seemed many nights had passed in such a way, like a developing routine. I awoke sometime in a grey earlier morning. Severus lay beside me on his stomach, hugging a musty pillow. The dingy sheets rested just below the pale skin of his rounded buttocks. I sat up slowly, the sheets falling over my breasts to the gentle swell of my belly.   
  
I had a headache as if I had drunk too much or was too hungry. I rubbed my face, feeling grubby and then ran my fingers through tangled hair. I sighed softly, glancing to the scars on Severus’ back. I raised a hand to touch one long scar with the tip of my finger, but hesitated. Severus snorted in his sleep and shifted, turning his face toward me.  
  
Already I could see the shadow of a beard and the crust of sleep in his long eyelashes. In sleep, Severus Snape was almost handsome, a childlike quality making his face likeable. In his waking moments, he brooded too much.  
  
I rose from bed, immediately shivering at how cold the small cottage was, and searching for my clothes, I found my wand. After several stringent Cleansing Charms and a beauty Charm to plait my hair down my back, I went to the fireplace. Only embers were left, and throwing a few logs on the fire, I knelt closer.  
  
I extended my right fist to the logs, and opening my hand…  
  
“What is it?” I heard Severus ask from the bed, turning from the now raging fireplace to see that he had sat up in bed, his hand resting on the empty spot beside him.  
  
“It’s nothing,” I whispered. 

* * *

  
  
  
  
Two owls came as Severus was making coffee in a kettle over the fire. I was casting basic household Charms on the cottage, something that was sorely lacking, when a small, familiar owl flew through the low crack of an opened window. The second, much larger owl tapped on the glass of the same window visibly perturbed.  
  
Severus took Pig’s missive while I opened the window wider for the brown Ministry owl.  
  
Severus scanned the letter and passed it to me, a scowl on his face, and then snatched the next missive, a roll of parchment from the Ministry owl.  
  
I did not recognize the hand, but if Pig were delivering the message, I had an idea…  
  
_‘R. searching for H. Leave no traces; no warrant yet, arrest imminent. P.’_  
  
I sighed, dropping the note on the small kitchen table next to Pig who was hopping and hooting at the other owl, trying to be menacing, I supposed. Severus frowned at the short roll of parchment and then passed it to me as well.  
  
_‘S and H, P.I.W. entire body not recovered, presumed dead. Two agents apprehended, questioning leading nowhere. R.B.W. moving for arrest with the approval of the Minister. I am being investigated. Grimmauld Place may be searched. P.F. coming to Ashbrittle soon, be on the move. Regards, H.J.P.’_  
  
Severus had begun feeding toast to the owls before shooing them from the cottage. He did not speak to me as he set the coffee on the table and sat down. I followed suit.  
  
“They want to arrest me because I have been involved in two incidents,” I muttered, staring down at the messages. I grimaced, snatching them up in my hand and setting them on fire.  
  
Severus paused in pouring himself coffee; his dark eyes watching the ashes fall to the cottage floor.  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Severus said, continuing to fill his chipped mug, then a second for me. “I’m more interested in ‘entire body not recovered, presumed dead.’”  
  
I reached for the yellow chipped mug with a smiley face on the front, gripping it between my palms, savouring the warmth. “Do not give me reason to hope.”  
  
Severus’ brow rose as he drank deeply of his black coffee.  
  
“Was Percy Weasley, the officious little snake, only just a friend?” Severus mused.  
  
I let my mug fall heavily to the tabletop. My eyes burned into Severus’ forehead.  
  
“You know nothing about me.”  
  
“True.”  
  
I pushed my coffee aside.  
  
“Percy was…” I began. “He was my truest friend, more than Harry or Ginny or Ron.”  
  
Severus’ face was impassive. “Yet, you suspected him.”  
  
I nodded. “Logically, one would. But he wasn’t…”  
  
Severus looked away. “I could never understand this Gryffindor loyalty…”  
  
“You wouldn’t,” I whispered.  
  
The rest of the morning was passed in stilted silence.

* * *

  
  
  
  
I wondered how Severus believed he knew to proceed. Our mission: to find Aberforth Dumbledore. Fannie’s cottage was along a country road only a few miles from the church and yew tree. It was to that location we walked through the rain. I begrudgingly Transfigured Harry’s old leather jacket, knowing that I would have to apologize later for whatever damage might mar the garment. We looked like a pair of wraith spirits gliding down the country lanes through rain and mist.  
  
Morning services at the church had ended an hour before we arrived, and we were unnoticed as we slipped into the cemetery. Passing under the draping limbs of the yew tree, I shivered. The Ashbrittle Yew was massive, segregated into separate trunks comprising a whole, living tree. It was just as it was in my dreams. The most central portion of the tree is where Severus went, while I stood at that largest trunk, my hand reading toward the gap in the bark.  
  
“Here,” Severus said, catching my attention. I withdrew my hand and adjusted my wet cowl on my head. Severus knelt on the ground, his hands moving earth and dry needles.   
  
I knelt next to Severus as his pale hands shifted soil away from what he was digging up. I watched as the dirt blackened his hands until I saw what it was he was seeking.  
  
It was a sort of runestone with a deep design carved into the blue-grey stone. The pattern was crude, but I knew it. The labyrinth. Severus stopped digging when the face of the runestone was visible.  
  
“In my dreams, there was a stone buried under the tree. This is only the very top of a stela. At the base of the stela is a body, the stone was to hold the body down into the earth…the body of an ancient, cruel king.”  
  
The image of the seven circuit classical labyrinth, combined with the smooth quality of Severus’ voice transfixed me.  
  
“I never put stock in dreams, until you were there,” he whispered, standing slowly.  
  
I blinked. “What did you say?”  
  
Severus did not answer, but his eyes glowed as he gazed at the stone.  
  
“What does this mean?” I asked, motioning to the stone.  
  
“It tells how we must proceed.”  
  
I stood. Fannie had said that we had to follow the ‘path,’ was this what she meant? I shook my head slowly, confused. Severus turned away, stalking out of the protection of the yew tree and into the steady rain. I lingered, impressing the image of the carved labyrinth into my brain. The center of the labyrinth spiral was a shape of a five-pointed star that reminded me of a floral design or a design in nature. It puzzled me, as did the mark at the opening of the labyrinth. I narrowed my eyes.  
  
The mark was the crude figure of a human entering the maze. There were no other markings I could see, and I began to ponder the design, the design in the centre of the labyrinth and the tiny figure entering the design like Theseus entering Daedalus’ Labyrinth.  
  
The labyrinth was an ancient symbol. It was a trap for malevolent spirits to some prehistoric cultures, and a path of pilgrimage to others. The labyrinth preceded anything we knew of magic. It was sacred.  
  
I took a deep breath and I could smell the faint hint of magic under the scent of earth, of yew, and of rain. I turned from the hole Severus had dug with his bare hands, and left the yew tree behind.  
  
I followed Severus, for lack of knowing what else to do, hoping that understanding would come with time.  


* * *

  
  
  
During the second year working for the Department of Historical Records, I had begun interviewing portraits in public locales. I had spoken to Headmaster Dexter Fortescue the year before, and learned that there were a great many portraits in Diagon Alley. Fortescue had a twin portrait in his great-grandson’s ice cream parlour, now under the stewardship of Mayberry Malkin, Madam Malkin’s niece.   
  
Due to his twin portrait, Dexter Fortescue was able to move from Hogwarts to Diagon Alley, and in both cases, Fortescue had learned who his ‘neighbors’ were.  
  
“There’s a portrait of Oswald Beamish at Gringotts, strange fellow. The goblins merely tolerate him nowadays. Then there’s Bowman Wright in the backroom of Quality Quidditch Supplies…”  
  
I had a running list of portraits to interview by the time I finished with Fortescue. In my second year at the DHR, I spent a great deal of time in Diagon Alley, even Knockturn Alley. However, the greatest surprise came from the portrait of Daisy Dodderidge, the first landlady of the Leaky Cauldron.  
  
Placed in Tom’s personal parlour in a back room of the pub, I spoke with Daisy Dodderidge as if I were speaking to an old friend. The robust woman was very pleasant, with a kindly face with brilliant hazel eyes. Dodderidge had built the Leaky Cauldron in the Sixteen Century to “serve as a gateway between the non-wizarding world and Diagon Alley,” as it said on the back of her chocolate frog card. As I spoke to Dodderidge, I found that the Leaky Cauldron was not simply a gateway.  
  
“It is a haven,” she said from her plain oak wood frame, parts of her portrait cracked and peeling at the top right corner. “In those days, we were hunted by the Muggles. The Ministry was barely a cellar down the road, and witches and wizards sought solace here. Granted, the Muggles were easily Confounded, they were more of an annoyance than a threat.  
  
This place was invisible to Muggle eyes, though in the beginning, some Muggles did stray inside. And when they stepped inside, they were lost.”  
  
I remembered cocking my head, not quiet understanding. Dodderidge smiled.   
  
“To Muggles, the inside of the Leaky Cauldron was only a maze of rubbish filled alley ways. It was a type of Confundus Charm, something my mother’s mother taught me. Muggles believed they had stepped into a dream, and in their brains, they were lost in what was alleys, dark and disgusting. Of course, they did not move far from the front door, they were lost in their own heads. By then, I or some patron would steer the Muggle to the door and kick them to the street.”  
  
I had chuckled and Dodderidge smiled mischievously.   
  
“Now, I suppose, there are new spells to keep the Muggles away, but in the beginning, when magic was still so strong in even the Muggles, it was the only protection to the Alley.”  
  
I then asked about the nature of the spell, telling Dodderidge I was not asking for anything she was not comfortable divulging, but out of curiosity—how could such a specific Charm work?  
  
“I was Sorted into Ravenclaw when I was at Hogwarts, and Professor Wenlock, a descendant of Bridget Wenlock, was my mentor. If you know your history, Miss Granger, you know that the Wenlocks specialized in Arithmancy.”  
  
I had nodded, making note of the mention of Wenlock.  
  
“Did you know that there was once a maze in one of the dungeons under Hogwarts?”  
  
I had read this fact in ‘Hogwarts, a History.’ First designed by Salazaar Slytherin and built by the third Head of Slytherin House as a memorial of sorts. It had been basis for the maze in the Tri-Wizard Tournament and filled with just as many dangerous magical creatures at one point in time. The Slytherins used the maze to hone their dueling skills. After the Seventeenth Century, the maze was deconstructed and the space disused.  
  
“I had the misfortune of being tricked to enter a maze by my school rival, Lucretia Black from Slytherin. She told me my cat had entered the maze, and stupid old Codswallop had a habit of going places he did not belong.”  
  
I smirked at the name of the cat as I jotted down the name of one of Sirius’ ancestors whose name would not be used again until the Twentieth Century, an aunt to Sirius, and a cousin to Molly Weasley.  
  
“I spent only five hours in the maze before I solved it. Lucretia Black was devastated that I had not died,” Dodderidge muttered with a satisfied smirk. “The maze was a miz-maze, a labyrinth. There were no crossings, and no deadly creatures. There were plenty of skeletons of creatures—manticores, re’ems, and putrid puddles of what was once lethifolds. There were some things I could not even recognize, but all were bad.  
  
All the same, Lucretia was punished, I was rewarded for surviving the maze, which I was told later was the equivalent of walking twenty miles… When one reached the centre, there was a Charm like a Portkey that transported you outside the labyrinth to the entrance.”  
  
“How did you manage that in five hours?”  
  
Dodderidge’s eyes sparkled mirthfully. “That, my dear, is a secret. There were more than dead things in the labyrinth. There were traps, embedded jinxes in the stone walls and floor. I overcame them, relatively unscathed.  
  
My time in the labyrinth changed me, it gave me ideas for new Charms, new formulas. It became a hobby of mine to construct different types of puzzles and mazes whether literal or mental. That was my thinking in building the Leaky Cauldron, a commission given to me by way of Professor Wenlock.”  
  
Dodderidge began to talk excitedly about the concept of the maze, of examples in Britain.  
  
“The ‘caerdroia,’ the Welsh word for ancient Troy, the ‘fortress of turns,’ they exist all over Britain. There were turf mazes built after my time—at Wing, Hilton, Somerton, but there were others that existed long before. They fascinate me still. Before Tom, the previous publicans would sometimes set books before my portrait, Muggle books about these places, with pictures that did not move…”  
  
Dodderidge’s words then veered away from the subject of her interest in mazes and labyrinths. I had noted every word, and filed my report.

 

 


	13. XIII

**XIII**  
  
I did not think about Dodderidge again until I read my Codex in Watchet, Somerset. I sat in the window seat of our rented room, looking down to the sea. I was wrapped in a comforter, my hair damp, and my clothes hanging from a line over the tub in the small lavatory. Severus lay on the full sized bed; his black clothes a drastic contrast to the white sheets. He had a pale arm thrown over his eyes.  
  
It was late day, and we had been in Watchet since morning, three days after finding the runestone in the middle of the Ashbrittle Yew. There had been no correspondence, and besides a few one-syllable words, and one phrase, Severus and I had not spoken. Only an hour before we had stood in another graveyard by St. Decuman’s Church with the sound of the sea in our ears. Graveyards were all the same to me, crooked gravestones, the grey stone of the church, and the yew trees and hedges. Rain had pounded on our shoulders and the cowls over our heads as we moved through the graveyard, I following Severus, as he searched.

* * *

 

Under the protective branches of the largest, oldest yew tree, Severus knelt down. On either side were gravestones, and oddly, a carved boar. He did not have to dig as he had in Ashbrittle, but merely swipe and brush away loose dirt and dead yew needles from the flagstone underneath. His long fingers traced the spiral of the labyrinth, dark soil still staining his fingers and nails from Ashbrittle. His forefinger lingered over one mark in the outer circuit of the labyrinth, a tiny primitive figure of a human.  
  
“This has been moved from the well,” he whispered, and that was the only complete sentence he had uttered aloud.  
  
St. Decumen’s had a sacred well, and though a plaque read 1170, as he passed the entrance to the well, I knew better. The well was ancient, just like the one under the Church of St. John the Baptist. Severus did not stop to even notice the ancient swell of magic coming from the direction of the well, heading back to the village.  
  
We took a room in a bed and breakfast, very modern, very comfortable. Severus had waited outside in the rain while I paid with Muggle money he had given me, his pockets full of it. I did not ask for an explanation and took the room under the guise that I was Severus’ wife. No questions were asked and I was given the key to the best room.  
  
And that was how I ended up wrapped in a fluffy white comforter, on a window seat. I knew I could simply magick my clothes dry, but the cold I felt was deep in the bone. I sat in my knickers while Severus lay quietly. I wished for warmth and blue sky, anything but the grey and rain of the sea. I wished for a deserted island, or even a populated island, I was not fussy, somewhere in the South Pacific or the Caribbean, maybe Bali or Hawaii. I wanted to soak in sun like a plant absorbing energy, and feel warmth in my blood and bones. I simply wanted to be comfortable.  
  
I sighed and gazed out the rain streaked window and frowned. To me, Watchet was nowhere, but it was more to Severus. The flagstone, the design of the labyrinth, the location, I wondered why Severus was not telling me where we were going and why. If we were following a ‘path,’ I had yet to see it. I rose slowly, my bare feet alighting the floor. Pulling the comforter tighter around me, I moved to the low dresser and took up my wand.  
  
With a flourish, the comforter was Transfigured and in the wall mirror over the dresser, I stood in a long white dress, a simple one piece that was more suiting for a warmer spring than the one outside the window. I could not keep wearing the dragon hide armoured outfit, I was wanted for questioning, and surely, a warrant had been issued since Harry’s and Pansy’s letters. I dispelled the Transfiguration on Harry’s old leather jacket hanging on the back of the room’s door.  
  
“You realize that by going out alone and unguarded, you risk being apprehended,” Severus growled from the bed.  
  
I sighed. “I am not an idiot,” I muttered.  
  
I was angry, very suddenly, and I was not exactly sure why.  
  
“I need air,” I whispered.  
  
In the mirror, I watched Severus shift, he still had not removed the arm over his eyes, but his free hand dug into the pocket of his trousers. Throwing several fifty pound notes on the empty side of the bed, he was still again.  
  
I left the room with Harry’s jacket over my shoulders, money in my pocket, along with my wand. I knew I looked silly in a white dress and unseemly high dragon hide boots and leather jacket, but it did not matter. The landlady in the front room eyed me coolly, but smiled when I asked about bookshops or cafes nearby.  
  
I trotted down the wet street wishing I had an umbrella. I passed by several shops until I found a wide awning before a small shop. I stopped, wiping my face with the back of my sleeve. I had needed air, and time.   
  
A few automobiles passed on the street and I turned away to the plate glass window behind me. In the display was information for the Watchet Festival in July. There were also books, mostly guidebooks for the county of Somerset, books of Coleridge’s poetry, and books on local history. My eyes scanned the titles and covers, until a particular cover, very plain, very simple, caught my eye.  
  
The cover was black with white lettering, and there was a black and white picture below the lettering. It was a book on Glastonbury Tor; the subtitle read ‘guide to history and legend.’ The photograph was what drew me to step closer to the window. I narrowed my eyes, and licked my lips.

It was an aerial view of the Tor with St. Michael’s Tower standing like a small figure atop an ovoid shaped hill, a drumlin I believed it was called in geologic terms. Along the slope of the Tor were terraces incised into the earth. Glastonbury Tor, it was a place with a rich history and mythology, Muggle and magical. Once touted as the burial place of King Arthur and his queen Guinevere, the Tor had been used since ancient times as a sacred locale. The terraces had many theories surrounding it, ranging from cow paths to an ancient labyrinth. It was the labyrinth theory that made me study the picture through the glass.  
  
I stepped back when the shopkeeper came near the window, curious as to my loitering under the protection of the awning. I smiled, only to receive an annoyed expression.   
  
I sighed and pulled up the collar of Harry’s jacket. The silence and awkwardness had to end. As I stepped back out into the rain, I knew I would somehow have to break the ice. I would have to know about the marker stones, and the ‘path.’  


* * *

  
  
  
Severus was in the small lavatory when I returned with take-away. He was shaving with his wand, using one of the male grooming Charms that I knew almost nothing about. He had bathed, but his hair was still greasy and lank about his face. He turned as I set the plastic bag full of seafood from a restaurant I had found on Market Street. I knew he was hungry because I was hungry; we had not eaten since the day before.  
  
I began removing food as Severus finished in the bathroom. In the small double room, there was little space to sit and eat properly, so Severus sat on the bed, eating, while I changed back into my dry clothes in the bathroom. I dispelled the Transfiguration on the comforter and carried it back into the room, Severus’ eyes watching me all the while as he chewed on a fishcake.  
  
I took a seat in the window and worked up my first question in my head.  
  
“You said you knew about the marker because you had seen it in your dreams. Our journey, it has something to do with the labyrinth design?”  
  
Severus swallowed. “Yes.”  
  
I pressed my lips together. Another one-syllable response…  
  
“How do you know where we should go to find Aberforth?”  
  
Severus shifted on the bed, leaning back into the headboard, a paper plate lifted to his chest as he ate with his fingers. “Because Aberforth took this path.”  
  
I frowned. “An explanation would be greatly appreciated,” I mumbled, crossing my arms before my chest. I let Severus eat first; I wanted answers before I ate.  
  
Severus sighed and rested his plate on his lap, untidily wiping his fingers into his trouser leg. “I know now how it was that I was rescued.   
  
Aberforth saved me while Potter left me, thinking me dead. He brought me to Perpetua Fancourt to heal. That part you know. I had dreams, I dreamed of the yew tree and the graveyard at Ashbrittle. The magic that saved me, the magic that preserved and healed me, it also healed the wounds on my soul. I suspect that is why parts of my memory are missing. I’ve had this theory for a while now. I do not remember things that scarred my soul…”  
  
“Killing Albus, the Dark Mark, that didn’t…?”  
  
“No. Don’t ask me to explain the whys or hows, I only have the theory.  
  
However, when I was taken from the tree, it was done because I was needed. The surviving Knights were old, over half of them dead. They were needed again; you, Potter, Goyle, Parkinson, and me were called to serve, as is our duty. For almost a whole year, I was free of the tree before I came to be completely aware. The Fidelus Charm was placed, and more parts of my memory Oblivaited, I assume.   
  
Some memory of that time remained, mostly of places, the Church of St. John the Baptist, the Ashbrittle Yew, Fannie’s cottage, and a few places nearby. There is also some memory of information given to me—programming.”  
  
“Programming?”  
  
Severus nodded. “The instructions to find Potter, to give the message being part of it… There were compulsions programmed into me as well, as if I were some automaton. I did not know when or if I would ever need the information, but it seems that Horace, Fannie, and Aberforth had planned for the worst.  
  
The labyrinth is a map. I was told to follow the path of the ‘caerdroia,’ in the event of danger.   
  
Just after you slipped out of Grimmauld Place, Fannie became agitated. You were not to leave the house. You had already placed yourself in danger with protecting Parkinson. She uttered a phrase to me, a key phrase.  
  
‘Dulce periculum,’ danger is sweet. It compelled me to follow despite my fear of being seen. It compelled me to save you. It compelled me to begin the task to find the map and follow the markers along the path. Aberforth, as it was agreed, would follow the circuit of the caedroia, leading to the goal.”  
  
“And what is that?”  
  
Severus did not answer, but began eating again.  
  
“And what is that?” I asked again.  
  
He ignored me and licked his fingers as he cleared the paper plate. I rose, my lips trembling. I had to know. I moved to the foot of the bed, standing just at Severus’ feet.   
  
If I were to follow him any further…  
  
“Damnit, Snape, what is it?” I growled in more of a shout.  
  
Severus dropped the greasy paper plate on the bed and met my eyes.  
  
“Avalon.”  


* * *

  
  
  
We moved next to eastern Somerset, to Frome. In another graveyard, next to another church for St. John the Baptist, Severus found the next marker under a hedgerow, lost to time. In the same day, we arrived in Chard, the original headquarters of Cerdric, the first king of Wessex. The next marker had been used as a flagstone in the side of the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, and the design was nearly worn away.  
  
By nightfall, we were in Taunton, in a double at The Castle Hotel.  
  
For the whole day, I had been trying to digest Severus’ words. Avalon.   
  
I did not sleep the night before in Watchet, preferring to sit wrapped in the comforter in the window seat while Severus snored softly. I did not want to dream.  
  
The Isle of Apples.  
  
I chewed on my fingernails in the dark, pressing my hot cheeks into the cool windowpanes to keep myself awake. I felt sick.  
  
Why had I been having the dreams in the first place? Was it some kind of sign, a premonition? It had to be, although I did not want to believe it. Premonitions and omens were in the domain of Divination, an ‘art’ better left to silly ninnies like Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil.  
  
The next morning, I clung to Severus’ arm, allowing myself to Apparate with him, following what felt like a chaotic path about Somerset. By Taunton, however, I had made a sketch in my Codex with the ballpoint pen I found in the hotel room’s writing desk. The labyrinth. I then found a tourist brochure of Somerset and began superimposing the spiral, classical labyrinth over the map. It was crude and drawn in a shaking hand, but as I began on the dot for Glastonbury. The classical labyrinth did not fit well, so I tried other variations of the spiral. Finally, the ink ran through Taunton, Chard, Frome, Watchet, and Wellington approximately where Ashbrittle lay. I had found the correct permutation and design. I then supposed the next marker would be a Yeovil or Stoke-sub-Hamdon.  
  
Severus stood near the window of the room, gazing out the back of the hotel and into a garden below. Ever since his words the night before, he had not spoken. It was dark out and raining still.  
  
His shoulders were slouched as he hugged himself. I watched his back for a long while at my seat at the writing desk. Severus was trembling.  
  
I did not realize I had risen and cross the room until I placed my hand on his back, moving around his right side. He watched me out of the corner of his eye. The cool façade was crumbling, his lips parting to breathe.  
  
“I am a fool,” he whispered.  
  
I said nothing.  
  
“It was a mistake,” he continued.  
  
I stepped back, drawing my hand away, and leaning into the wall next to the window. A pain coursed through my chest. I straightened, however, and felt my face arrange itself into a snarl. I knew very well what he was implying.  
  
That night, Severus slept on the small loveseat next to the foot of the bed.  


* * *

  
  
  
Castle Neroche near Staple Fitzpaine was once a hill fort, and all that remained were earthworks, but somehow Severus knew to look for the marker near the place where hut circles had once been. Archeologists had placed signs as to where artefacts were found, and it was near the place a sword had been found that Severus found the marker.   
  
The rain had abated for a few hours, but the sky was still overcast as he used his wand to move earth instead of his hands. It was unusually cold on the hill, and I shifted from foot to foot as Severus pulled a heavy blue-grey stone from a good-sized hole. My Muggle sense told me that we were breaking about five different laws, but it really did not matter.   
  
Severus set the stone on the wet grass, his fingers cleaning out the carved circuits of the labyrinth, then the tiny figure, of dirt. It was as he began muttering quietly to himself that we were ‘nearly halfway,’ that a series of pops made me draw my wand.  
  
I felt my teeth begin to chatter. Seven men, all in black robes, surrounded us. However, the eighth man was in red robes. Severus did not move from where he knelt near my feet, his cowl falling so low over his face, that I was sure none of the men could see who he was.  
  
“Hermione Jean Granger, you are under arrest…”  
  
Ron Weasley’s face was twisted angrily, his wand trained upon me. He continued speaking, but I could not hear. By the way his mouth moved, I only managed to understand ‘murder.’ The men in black encroached, wands being drawn.  
  
The next few moments were confusion, but I knew I had fallen into a combat stance, hexes flying from my wand tip in quick succession. Four men fell, and the other four were running, not away, but toward me. I supposed I should have Apparated away or run, but the decision to fight had won over the decision to flee.  
  
When sound returned, it was to yelling, vocalized hexes cutting through the still air. I moved, not thinking of Severus or caring. The instinct to fight had taken over and all I had was my self-preservation.  
  
Ron was roaring orders, to Stun me, incapacitate me. I was running into the trees around the slope of the hill, Hexes, and then Curses slamming into trunks and splintering wood. I could feel the compression of air as Hexes flew by me as well as the flying pieces of soil and tree smacking into my dragon hide armour. I cast over my shoulder as I ran, my boots pounding into the steep ground. I wove in and around trees until I was atop the hill again, near a circle of earth with a sign reading ‘castle beacon.’  
  
“Hermione!”  
  
Ron’s voice drifted through the trees as I scanned the hilltop. The four I had Stunned lay very still, and Severus was missing, as was the marker stone.  
  
A Stunner gazed my left arm and I fell, rolling on the wet grass off the knoll of the castle beacon. I could feel my arm going numb, but I climbed to my feet and began running again just as two black-cloaked men emerged from the trees.  
  
It had begun to rain again as I dropped another man with a well-placed Impediment jinx. The second man glided forward, after me, with a burst of speed. He did not cast though his wand followed me, and soon, he was running alongside me. He had a dull, unremarkable face, and short brown hair. I gritted my teeth and cast again, a Stunning Hex which nearly blinding me at such close range. The force of the hex sent the man flying high and into the trees. I did not look to see where he fell.  
  
As I came to the far edge of the clearing on the hilltop, my boots slid in the grass as I tried to stop. Ron stood at the far end, the remaining man in black near his back.  
  
“Where’s the other one?” Ron asked, not to me, but to the remaining Department of Intelligence agent.  
  
I wondered if Ron knew that it was such a man that was responsible for Percy’s death.  
  
“He’s Apparated away,” came the answer from another unremarkable face, but the voice was oddly disproportionate—a female voice.  
  
I blinked. Polyjuice was the only explanation. However, I was more concerned with the fact that I was alone and that I, unlike Severus, had not Apparated away as soon as the first hex was cast. Severus had obeyed his ‘flight’ instinct.  
  
“Lower your wand, Hermione,” Ron growled, taking a step forward.  
  
I did not.  
  
“Please, Hermione.”  
  
The anger was still there despite the request.  
  
“You know what this means. You are a criminal combatant, a fugitive…”  
  
I looked past Ron to the remaining agent who was slowly moving to flank me. I shifted on my feet.  
  
“Don’t think about Apparating, we’ve set a ward on this whole hill… Your friend just managed to slip past, we’ll catch him too.”  
  
I ground my teeth together. I wanted to scream at Ron that he was making a terrible mistake. I wanted to Curse Severus Snape for leaving me.  
  
“If you come with me willingly, you won’t be hurt…”  
  
At Ron’s words, like a mental trigger, I felt pain. My left arm was numb, but my shoulder ached. I could feel stings on my cheeks and hot blood. The worst pain came from my back; as if something had stabbed me in the soft part of my right side, and whatever it was still in my flesh.  
  
Ron still had his wand pointed me, but with his left hand, he was reaching toward me. The androgyne agent was at my left side, sidestepping to move behind me as if to trap a wild animal from escaping.  
  
“Just lower your wand, and I swear, we will help you…”  
  
I was caught, and I wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Ron took another step forward, his face softening.  
  
“We’ll sort this out, I promise. Please, luv,” he whispered and for a short moment, I believed him.  
  
“No…” I hissed, and pushing the pain aside, I moved to hex the agent who was near my left shoulder. I did not have a plan on what to do next, which would probably lead to me having to duel my old friend and lover.  
  
“Jump!”  
  
The deafening sound of Severus’ voice nearly made me drop my wand, but my body responded. My brain was confounded.   
  
Jump? Why? But I did jump, and my body was lifted off the ground. The voice had commanded, and I obeyed.  
  
“Granger!”  
  
Ron was shouting, but I could not see. My face was covered in wet cloak, my arms wrapped about a straining neck, my legs about a narrow waist. Severus held me and I could feel rain and wind around us.  
  
The impact of the hard ground into my left side knocked the air out of me, and I caught sight of Severus rolling on the ground in a field below Castle Neroche. His grunts were loud, but with the momentum of his roll, he managed to lithely jump to his feet.  
  
I began coughing as oxygen filled my lungs again. Severus ran to my side, his face wild with fear, his eyes burning into my face. He pulled me up roughly, lifting me into his arms. All the while I coughed, Severus ran.  
  
“Damnit!” he hissed.  
  
We had not Apparated from Castle Neroche. We had flown. We were nearly in the village of Staple Fitzpaine when Severus slowed. He did not release me, however, but held me tighter.  
  
“This might hurt,” he muttered, but I was still gasping for breath to understand until the pain came again.  
  
We Apparated.

* * *

  


  
I had been right about Stoke-sub-Hamdon, it was our next destination. I did not realize until much later that we were there when we appeared atop Ham Hill. I was too busy screaming at the compression of Apparition.  
  
It was also raining in Stoke-sub-Hamdon, and large raindrops fell upon my face as Severus laid me on the ground. His hands moved over me, his lips pressed tight. Pulling a splinter of blasted tree trunk from my right side, I screamed louder.  
  
I saw the blood on Severus’ pale hands and the way his eyes burned, and I knew that I was in bad shape. Adrenaline had pushed me to run and fight, but laying on Ham Hill in Somerset, I was done.  
  
I suppose I fainted for the last thing I saw was Severus wiping his brow of rain, only succeeding in wiping my blood onto his skin. The sight thrilled me, for some perverse reason and then, I saw no more.

 

* * *

  
  
  
“I am very sorry to be short, madam, but my wife is quite exhausted…”  
  
I opened my eyes. I could hear the mumbling of a woman’s voice somewhere to my right.  
  
“No, madam, there is no need for a doctor. After a hot bath to drive away the wet and cold, she will be fine, thank you…”  
  
The snap of a door shutting brought me back. I was lying on a soft bed in a room with near bare cream coloured walls. I turned my head to the right just as Severus turned from the door. He looked different, his cloak Transfigured into a long black trench coat, his face slightly glamoured so that his hooked nose was not so severe and his eyes were a bright blue.   
  
He slipped out of his coat and threw the dripping cloth over the metal frame at the foot of the bed. Drawing his wand from the holster that had been hidden by the coat, he dispelled the glamour as he stalked to a doorway in the left wall, a lavatory. The sound of water running soothed me, stifling the heavy tattoo of my heartbeat against my breasts and in my ears.  
  
I felt as if I was somehow displaced from my body, and every movement was slow. I could remember everything that had happened up until Severus pulled the splinter from my side.  
  
“Where are we?” I asked, but my voice was strained, less a whisper than a rasp.  
  
Severus had returned from the lavatory with a towel and glass of water. He did not answer me until he had me sitting on the edge of the bed, kneeling to pull my boots from my feet.  
  
“Montacute, about two miles from Ham Hill. The Masons Arms is the name of this quaint inn,” he drawled, dropping my boots to the floor and then moving his hands to push my jacket off my shoulders.  
  
I winced as I moved, the dripping leather wetting the duvet under me. Soon, I was sitting on the edge of the bed in only my under things, my wet clothes on the floor. I stared at the shirt lying partially under my trousers.  
  
“Dragon hide armour does not work when it does not fit well,” Severus murmured as his hands moved about my right side, feeling the ribs. “It must have ridden up about your waist…”  
  
I nodded, glancing down to the large bruise on my ribs. There was still a wound, but there was no blood.  
  
“Can you feel your arm?”  
  
I blinked. I could feel my left arm again after being clipped by a Stunner. I could flex my fingers, and feel the pins and needles of nerves waking ran up to my sore shoulder.  
  
“I healed the cuts on your face; I did not want the landlady to think that you had been in some accident…”  
  
“What _did_ you tell her?”  
  
Severus’ brow knitted as his fingers ran along a rib. I grunted and inhaled sharply.  
  
“We were taking a walking tour from Yeovil, it started to rain, you slipped into a ditch… You are exhausted, so that much was true.”  
  
Poking at the sorest spot on my ribs, I grasped Severus’ hand to stop him.  
  
“It’s cracked, you can stop torturing me now,” I grunted. “Why am I the one who is always getting hurt?”  
  
Severus’ lip curled into half smirk, half snarl. “Because you still haven’t figured out that sometimes running is the wiser choice.”  
  
“Cowards run…”  
  
I immediately regretted my words. Severus’ hands, which had moved to my left side, stilled for a moment, but he said nothing.   
  
Severus Snape was many things, but he was never a coward.  
  
“I’m sorry,” I murmured.  
  
Severus, again, said nothing, but I could tell by the stiffness in his shoulders that my words had somehow hurt him. He felt along my ribs on my left side. There were smaller bruises there, but not as bad as the right side.  
  
“You need sleep,” he said softly. “I might have a phial left…”  
  
When he rose, I felt his eyes skim over the top of my head. He moved to his Transfigured cloak and began digging into pockets. Pressing an open phial into my hand, I did not question what was inside. Harry had given the phials back to Severus at some point, the potions he had on him when he arrived at Grimmauld Place that seemed to be ages ago.  
  
I drank. Severus helped me to lie in the bed, pulling the duvet over me. I had only a few more moments of lucidity as my wet head hit the pillow.  
  
“He said I was a murderer,” I mumbled.  
  
“Are you?”  
  
I closed my eyes. “I don’t know…”


	14. XIV

**XIV**  
  
I had killed before. I had never used the Killing Curse, but there were plenty of other ways to kill another human being. It had never been intentional, I had never wished to kill, but I had.  
  
During the War, I had caused several to die. During my years as an Auror, I had caused more to die. Killing was not something that settled well in my mind. No matter the reason, I could never justify being responsible for taking a life. That was, until Severus Snape reappeared. I knew I had burned one man to death, and I was repressing the remorse. However, Ron’s words rankled me. Was I going to be convicted of killing out of self-defence after all? Or had I murdered someone else without realising it?  
  
The attack in Islington had been so swift that I had not even raised my wand before Severus was pulling me away. I had not seen Percy killed, I had not seen much at all. The attack at Castle Neroche had me casting and running, but I did not think I had killed.  
  
The darkness was moving faster than we were. The attack in Helston and Islington had been proof that whoever was ordering the agents knew of my involvement. It would have been an easy deduction. I had been the one to bring new information of the Knights of Walpurgis to light. They knew of Fannie’s involvement, somehow, and Horace’s. They knew about Aberforth, and were searching for him as well.  
  
I feared for the others. We they also having men follow them, attack them? I hoped not.   
  
Sleeping and waking had become painful to me, and when I woke, I did not know how much time had passed. The sky was still overcast, and the grey light was the same through the room’s window than when I fell asleep.  
  
I was alone. I rose, feeling that my ribs had been healed, and then seeing that the bruises were almost gone, I knew that either Severus had performed some strong healing magic or much time had passed.  
  
Setting on a side table near the door was a pile of clothing, new underclothing, Muggle denims, a soft blue camisole and a knit black jumper. Next to the clothing was a brown canvas backpack and inside were my dragon hide clothes. Harry’s leather jacket was missing. I found my wand and holster under the canvas bag, along with a letter.  
  
I did not dress, but stood in the room in dirty underclothing, snatching up the letter. It was not from Severus, but Harry.  
  
_‘H and S, warrant issued for arrest on the charges of murder. Ministry moving to charge H with murder of one Hardy Bowles in Islington and manslaughter in Helston—Islington charge unfounded, credibility of witnesses questionable. R.B.W. on the move with assistance of DI agents. MLE has suspended me pending investigation, cannot be of more help. P.P. might know more, wedding postponed. P.I.W. body not recovered, only evidence was severed right foot, sound oddly familiar? W. family speculative of death, suspicious of R.B.W. Father W. and daughter are cooperative, keeping silent. P.F. in Ashbrittle, G.G. with her now. MacLaggen new head of DI, pressuring MLE, Minister purports no comment. Prophet silent. Move swiftly, R.B.W. on your trail. He is being used, beware. Regards, H.J.P.’  
_  
I burned the letter in my hand, grimacing. I had to let the message sink in before I drew any conclusions, and so, I bathed. My hair was filthy, dirt washing out in black soapy suds. I threw my under garments into the lavatory bin, and dried my hair without the aid of magic. I dressed, finding the clothes to fit perfectly, and used some Charms to clean the bed clothing.  
  
I knew I had not murdered in Islington, and was surprised I was being charged at all for the death of the agent in Helston. Harry’s letter came too late as Ron and the agents attacked perhaps the day or two days before.   
  
_‘…severed right foot, sound oddly familiar?’_  
  
It did. As did Percy’s words about MacLaggen. I was not sure what to believe.  
  
Ron being used…I believed that much. I rubbed the towel over my hair until it was as unruly as it had been when I was a girl. No matter how much time would pass, I was doomed to have a mess of wild waves and curls. I wondered sometimes if my hair would be a handsome silver or plain grey when I got old.  
  
I sat on the edge of the bed, absently drying my hair, thinking of Harry’s letter, which was now fine ash on the floor. Harry being suspended, pending investigation, worried me. After nearly thirteen years, Harry Potter, the Boy Who was Triumphant, could do no wrong. It was an irritating fact that was now in doubt.  
  
A knock on the door startled me and I glanced to duvet, where I set my wand next to me.  
  
“Mrs. Prince?” a muffled female voice called from the other side of the door.   
  
I dropped my towel over my wand and rose. Opening the door I found a middle aged Muggle woman with a small tea service balanced on one hand, her hand poised to knock again. At the sight of me, the woman smiled. She had a kind face with wrinkles about her mouth and eyes, her long graying hair piled on top of her head in a bun. She was shorter than I was, which made her very short indeed.  
  
“Your husband suggested I bring up something hot after he left this morning. You’re looking a good sight better than yesterday…”  
  
I feigned a smile as the landlady twittered on about how strangely cold the weather had been, how handsome my ‘husband’ was, and how doting. I answered at the appropriate places, commenting on how nice the inn was and how much better I felt. Finally, I had the small service on the side table next to the brown canvas bag, the door shut and locked.   
  
There were a few small sandwiches on the service, which I ate quickly. I sat in a chair near the window, drinking tea in silence. I had asked only one question, where  _was_  my ‘husband’ this morning?  
  
The landlady had answered that he had walked toward Stoke-sub-Hamdon. I frowned into my black tea. Severus was looking for the next marker without me.  
  
Toward the late afternoon, I turned on the radio in the alarm clock setting on a stand between the windows before the foot of the bed. BBC Somerset was the default station, and I listened to the programme, disinterested. By five o’clock, I switched the radio off.   
  
I paced the room, considering casting a glamour on myself to go down to the pub to find something to eat, but then realized the landlady had seen my face. I chewed on my thumbnail. I was growing concerned.   
  
It was growing dark outside the window overlooking the road, and I had finished in the lavatory at approximately six when the lock disengaged on the door and Severus stepped into the room. I wanted to rebuke him for leaving me for so long, but his glamoured face was grave.  
  
He doffed his coat, then his boots as he sat on the bed. As I moved about the room, I could see the blisters on his feet.  
  
“I could not find the marker…”  
  
Drawing his wand, he dispelled the glamour and began tending to the bloody blisters on the ball of his large, pale feet.  
  
“Are we not in the right place?” I asked, sinking down into the chair near the window.  
  
“I’m not exactly sure. I destroyed the marker at Staple Fitzpaine… I brought us here out of quick assumption and panic. What I saw there made me assume Ham Hill. Perhaps the marker has been moved…”  
  
I licked my lips and moved to the canvas bag, withdrawing the shrunken Codex from my trouser pocket. I drew my wand from the back pocket of my denims and resized it, opening it to the sketch I had made. I passed the open book to Severus who hesitated before taking it, his eyes not moving higher than my hand.  
  
“Fermat’s spiral?” Severus asked, a finger tracing the ink over the map of Somerset County I had magically adhered into the open pages. I nodded.  
  
“It is not exact. Other spirals did not seem to work. The Archimedean was too simple, the Golden Spiral too general…”  
  
Severus began tracing our path from Ashbrittle, Wellington to Watchet.  
  
“The markers are placed in no uniform locale. Churches built over pagan sites, ancient hill forts, buried under yew trees in graveyards…” Severus trailed. “I searched Ham Hill and the village. There are other places to look.”  
  
Severus passed the Codex back to me, and finally met my eye.  
  
“How are you feeling?”  
  
I closed the book and tossed it toward the canvas bag, stepping back to sit in the chair again. “Better. The clean clothes helped…”  
  
Severus turned his face away. “You found Potter’s letter?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“We can only spend the night here before moving. If we cannot find the marker…”  
  
“You said there were other places to look, if not, we move on to Bridgwater.”  
  
Severus’ shoulders slumped, his hands resting on the edge of the bed on either side of his legs. “It is not so simple. Without the markers, we are off the path. Not to mention, we were attacked at Staple Fitzpaine. It will be sooner than later that we are found again.”  
  
I had not gotten so far in my thinking as to wonder how we were tracked to Castle Neroche.  
  
“They could not be so certain of their path, Harry surely would have said something in his letter.”  
  
“Did you notice the date?”  
  
I had not.  
  
“It was dated three days ago. Much could have happened since then.”  
  
I rose, “You cannot believe that you had been so careless as to let them track you taking me to Ashbrittle?”  
  
I had moved across the room to stand before Severus, whose dark hair fell about his face, obscuring it in a curtain of darkness. He chuckled darkly.   
  
“It is fascinating that we are calling them ‘they’ and ‘them’ now. I suppose it is for lack of a better name.”  
  
I sighed and reached to switch on the lamp next to the bed, breaking the settling darkness. In the light, Severus hair gleamed like liquid dark, and I had an urge to bury my fingers into the lank strands.  
  
“I don’t think we were tracked. However, since Potter’s letter, he could have been interrogated, or Goyle captured with Fancourt. Potter wrote that he was to be investigated. Only he, Goyle, and Fancourt could know where we were heading.”  
  
I fell to my knees before Severus, grasping his knees. “We are going about one-way blind. Is there some way we could…”  
  
Severus shook his head. “I found that letter slipped under the door. The landlady told me that she found it addressed to the occupants of Room 3, The Masons Arms, Montacute, Somerset. There was no name, and it had appeared in the letterbox outside with Muggle mail. And unless you have some Floo Powder lining your pockets, we have no way of communicating with the others.”  
  
My fingers dug into the fabric of Severus’ trousers. “We’ll have to go back,” I mumbled, my vision distant.  
  
“No.”  
  
Severus’ tone was sharp, and it startled me to look up into his face.  
  
“We find Aberforth, follow the path along the labyrinth, and do what we must to keep ‘them’ from accessing the prison of Merlin. That is our duty.”  
  
My lips trembled. “Why us?” I asked in a whisper.  
  
Severus’ hands moved to cup my face, much as Harry had done when telling me that the responsibility was on me because I had inadvertently aroused the notice of some elusive Dark figure.  
  
“I was born to suffer,” he whispered. “That was my lot. You, however, were born to something far more beautiful.”  
  
My eyes widened. How could he say something so fatalistic? How could he know such a thing? His very words made me think of the half hour of death I had experienced.  
  
“Rubbish,” I whispered. “Fighting and nearly dying is not beautiful, especially when I am not sure what I am fighting for.”  
  
Severus smirked. “Neither of us does, yet we are.”  
  
We had only known the madness of Tom Marvolo Riddle, and the danger it entailed. What did I care about old tales and legends, Merlin, Nimue? What did I know about the power of an ancient wizard and what effect it would have? Yet, I followed and fought next to Severus Snape, because I did not know what else to do.  
  
Danger was sweet, and the ache I felt in my body was real. The death was real. The danger was real. Even the odd spark in Severus’ eyes was real.  
  
“Why are you looking at me as if I were…?”  
  
I had not realised I was gazing at Severus’ face in any other manner than to study. He still cupped my face, and as he began to draw his hands away, my own hands stopped him.  
  
“The first night,” he began, “when you kissed me at Grimmauld Place…”  
  
He did not finish, but his lips pressed tight together, squeezing out any blood that might colour his face. His eyes told me tales, like picture images flashing in quick succession in those black depths. There were pictures missing, but the story was clear.  
  
This man knew nothing of real love or companionship. Even if he could not remember Lily Potter, the little girl he grew up with in Sheffield, he could remember the ache of loss. The hatred, the pain, the humiliation, the ache, the guilt, and the sacrifice were still imprinted onto his soul. No amount of memory loss or modification could erase Severus Snape’s darkness of soul or natural derision for the things he could never understand.  
  
“Kiss me.”  
  
I blinked as I allowed Severus’ hands to slip to my shoulders. I could only stare.  
  
“Kiss me,” he repeated, his voice taking on an authoritarian air.   
  
His hands moved to my throat, his fingers fitting around my skin. He did not tighten his grip, but used his hold to pull me toward him. He met me by bending down, his face only an inch from mine.  
  
“Kiss me, Hermione,” he ground out.  
  
The hint of anger sent a shock of fear through me. I had to submit. I wanted to submit.  
  
His kiss was rough, passionate, and angry. I closed my eyes, but I knew he had not. His tongue forced its way into my mouth, his teeth nipping at my lips. I gasped as his hands tightened about my throat, forcing me to move lest I would not be able to breathe. I slipped into his lap, one arm holding me close so I could not escape, his left hand grasping my breast through my jumper.  
  
I let him kiss me, wondering when his anger would wane. It did not, even as he lifted me into his arms to drop me on the bed. Anger forced him to pull off the jumper and camisole he had brought me that morning. Anger forced him to rip at his own clothes until he knelt over me in only his trousers, his knees planted into bed on either side of my denim-clad thighs.  
  
I lay still. His mouth closed over my left breast, his hair brushing against my faintly bruised ribs. I, again, wanted to bury my fingers in his oily black hair, but did not. Such an action would denote tenderness, and I knew Severus did not want tenderness. He was too wrapped inside an anger I could not fully understand.  
  
It was not me that he resented, it was the missing piece of his memory, of an obsessive love, he thought he once owned. I was his Lily Evans.  
  
Shucking the denim off my legs along with my knickers, I was bared to his scrutiny. He said nothing, and did not touch me, but his eyes were like twin probes that travelled from my unruly hair on the pillow to my expressionless face. His eyes lingered on my breasts and the supple globes of pale flesh. The dark pink nipples were erect in the air and from his ministrations. Downward, his eyes skimmed over the swell of my belly to the dark curls between my hips to the hardening muscles of my thighs. I had once been a toned and tight woman with a younger body, but age and disuse had made me softer. There were scars on my skin, stretch marks, and in so many ways, I was more feminine at nearly thirty-one than I ever had been before.  
  
The anger was still present, but it had diminished somewhat after his visual inspection of my body. Something softened in his gaze, just as his cock hardened, bulging at the front of his trousers. He did not move, but knelt over me, and I began to feel awkward, and cold.  
  
I did not want to be his new version of a dead woman. I wanted to be me, in his eyes, not some ideal. An obsession, perhaps, but something more than that—I wanted to be one with him just as we were in my dreams. Loved.  
  
I raised up to grasp his face, startling him out of his angry haze, and I kissed him. I hummed into his mouth. The anger was gone, but the passion remained.  
  
Severus broke the kiss, pushing at my shoulders so that I fell back into the bed. His lips were pink with the kiss, and his eyes were wide.  
  
“This was a mis—“ he trailed.  
  
I had grasped the waistband of his trousers, tugging the button fly open. When my fingers wrapped about his cock, I had stopped him from finishing his statement. I ground my teeth together, knowing that I never wanted him to ever speak that word, mistake, ever again.  
  
I had wondered if it had been a mistake that Severus Snape were somehow alive. I had wondered if it were a mistake that I wanted to be near him.   
  
He took a tremulous breath, lowering to his haunches as I pushed at his trousers with my free hand, sliding them down his hips. Our previous, incomplete encounter had not let me see his cock or the dark thatch of curls that was the terminus of the line of hair down his chest. I had only felt his girth, but as I watched my own hand wrap about his cock, I found that he was large, but not intimidating. He was uncircumcised and I rolled my wrist to stroke, pulling the foreskin away from the purple head.  
  
Severus mumbled something breathlessly as I began stroking his cock, and then grasped my face, pulling me up from the bed again. As I stroked, his erection grew, stretching the foreskin until I could feel the first indication of his orgasm dampening the space between my thumb and forefinger.  
  
His kisses were peppered upon my face as he worked his way out of his trousers, his skinny bare knees parting my own until he knelt between my thighs. We fell together, my hand slipping from his cock to grasp his shoulders. Our kisses were frantic, moving over cheeks and jaws to throats and shoulders.  
  
Severus seemed to try and touch or kiss every inch of my body and I could think of only one word.   
  
Worship.  
  
This was what my mother meant, perhaps?  
  
His nose buried into the cleft between my thighs after kissing my ribs, the bruises, my belly and unattractive stretch marks, then my bony hips. He inhaled deeply, and a whimper was wrought from my throat. Nuzzling his nose into the course hair, I felt his tongue lash out. My back arched, my thighs spread further apart, and my fingers found his hair.  
  
My clit, inner labia, vulva, vagina, all my female anatomy was tasted. The prod of the tip of his tongue made my fingers gasp his hair roughly. He did not make a sound, the tip of his tongue lightly tracing the bundle of sensitive nerves. I made a sound when his crooked teeth brushed against my clit. I said his name.  
  
His eyes flickered up my body, and I could not discern whether he was scowling into my clit or smirking. Applying suction, Severus’ tongue flicked against me, and my eyes rolled back into my skull. Slipping a finger into my body, then two, I hissed through my teeth, my hips jerking.  
  
Was I being punished or rewarded? With Severus Snape, one would never know.  
  
His hand moved and the fingers thrust inside, producing a wet squelching noise, one that I saw with certainty delighted him as I watched him through my eyelashes.  
  
_‘She would only ever let me touch her like this…’_  
  
I groaned, sitting up on my elbows. I could see a memory in his eyes. It was like Legilimency, I realised, but instead of seeing directly into his mind, I could see, as if peeking in through a keyhole, into his eyes, but more than that, I could hear him. I do not think he realised I could hear his projected and intense thought, he was far too vulnerable, perhaps.  
  
He did not know who ‘she’ was, but I did, and I hated her.  
  
_‘She would never touch me, no matter how I pleaded…’_  
  
His fingers curled upward, and the connection was gone. My world shattered just like it sounded in Ginny’s smutty romance novels, and I came.  
  
Like a kitten lapping at cream, Severus licked and slurped. I was slightly embarrassed at the sound.  
  
Embarrassment was replaced by need. The absence of his long digits made my body clamp down, and I sat up just as Severus rose from his feast. I caught his jaw in my fingers, and with a moan, devoured his mouth. Our noses knocked, but it did not matter. It did not matter that his teeth were crooked, his nose hooked, his curtain of hair that brushed my cheeks was greasy. I had to show this man that I was not ‘her.’ I wanted to return the adoration and worship, not just because I hated ‘her,’ but also because he was alive, I was alive, and we were forced companions on the path to the unknown.  
  
He grunted as I pushed him down to the bed, straddling his bony knees. Confusion was etched on his face, then shock as I mimicked his movements, kissing his chest, licking at the flat nipples over wiry pectoral muscles. My fingers traced the indentation of muscle and hip, brushing into that dark thatch of hair above his bobbing cock.  
  
“You…” he hissed, but there were no more words. I had licked the head of his cock, grasping his sac, the light smattering of dark, course hair tickling the palm of my hand. I closed my eyes and inhaled through my nose as my jaw opened, my tongue curling.  
  
It was Severus’ turn to bury his damp fingers in my hair. The groan that was ripped from him was like the sweetest balm, sending shivers down to my sopping centre. It was heavenly.  
  
My nose was in that thatch of hair, my throat stretching and tightening. I had learned to control my gag reflex after so many years with Ron. I had learned to please him, being the overachiever I was, but in the end, to be fair, Ron had merely satisfied me. I wanted my head to explode…  
  
I began the motions, trying different types of strokes or compressions of the flat of my tongue against the underside of his cock. I applied suction upon the head, and Severus began to mutter incoherently. I could only catch a few words.  
  
“Sweet woman…goddess…love…”  
  
It urged me on, squeezing his sac gently, fingers wrapping about the base. His thighs trembled and I could feel the blood course through his cock from my hold at the root. I began to taste the bitter precursor to ejaculate, and it thrilled me.  
  
However, as the tip of my tongue played about the opening at the head, Severus rose up from the bed as if possessed, grasping my arms, and pulling me away. He pulled me up his body like lifting a child. His teeth clashed against mine, his kiss frantic.  
  
We were breathless. I lay half on, half off of his body, my breasts pressed high upon his chest, my right leg wrapped about his right leg, his sticky cock pressing into my hip. His fingers brushed against my hair then my cheek. His face was flushed, his thin lips swollen handsomely.  
  
Our eyes met for only a moment, and then Severus moved. He slipped from under me, and began kissing my shoulder blades, my back. I grinned into the pillow as he maneuvered himself to kneel behind me. His palms ran over my back to my buttocks and then, he lifted my hips so that I was on my knees.  
  
His penetration was rough, his cock swollen, my centre swollen. The discomfort lasted for only a moment as I rose up to my hands and pressed back. Severus growled, grasping the back of my hair and pulling me up. He ground something out between his teeth, but I could not hear well over my throaty yelp. The tip of his cock had pushed deep into my body, jabbing into my womb.  
  
Teeth scored my throat before I was forced face down into the pillows. With one hand wrapped about my hip, Severus moved. There was nothing romantic or elegant about him. I could just see him out of the corner of my eye, my cheek pressed into the duvet. The lamplight gave him some colour, but his crooked teeth were clenched, his lips curled. However, it was his eyes that entranced me, the glow of life in the darkness.  
  
My gasping breath blew pieces of hair from my face, but my eyes never left his face. The slick slide of his cock into my body turned into powerful thrusts. I was losing the battle to maintain a steady pleasure inside; the sensation was building into the inevitable climax.  
  
I swore through my teeth, every sense filled with Severus Snape. The sound of his grunts and my whimpers, the sound of flesh slapping flesh, the combination of sensations, the taste of his kiss and his pre-cum, and most of all, the sight of his sweat running down the side of his sallow cheek, the burning coals he had for eyes—I wailed my completion.  
  
It did not end, however, even as my knees slid on the duvet and Severus followed me down, his hands moving to spread my buttocks. He straddled my thighs and in the tight space, he did not stop his pace. The sticky dampness of my pussy coated my bottom, just as my ragged breath between my face and pillow wet my cheeks.  
  
Fingers slipped and trailed until I felt a nudge at my pucker. I jerked. The questing finger was gone. I heard him sigh between gasps. I was not ready, as much as I would have enjoyed the attention, I was far too lost, and the manner in which Severus penetrated me kept me from relaxing.  
  
He faltered mid-stroke, and I moved. A tangle of limbs and of soaking bits of anatomy shifted until I had Severus on his back, his face gazing up at me with a mixture of hazy lust and surprise. I impaled myself upon him and he arched up toward me, his mouth open in a silent howl.  
  
I rode him, ignoring the protest of muscles and the ache of bruising. I rode him, hair flying, breasts bobbing, my fingers digging into his chest to keep me upright. It was not enough, and with a quick hand, I grabbed his wrist, pushing his fingers into the engorged nubbin that was visible between my lips.  
  
I stifled a cry as his fingers pinched and rubbed my clit, his other hand reaching to palm my right breast. I clenched my vaginal muscles, receiving the most beautiful whimper yet, my name laced upon the sound.  
  
“Hermione…”  
  
His voice was so smooth, so deep, that I could feel it in my womb, holding it there like some delight. I clenched again, and Severus was thrusting up to meet me, his jaw tightening, his eyes glittering like black volcanic rock.  
  
“Goddess…” he gritted out between his teeth, and soon I was on my back, my knees over his shoulders, one of his hands about my throat.  
  
Pummeling force moved my back up the bed until my head hit the metal frame of the top of the bed. I was gasping for breath, my hand clawing into Severus’ wrist. I was being thoroughly had—fucked, and I loved it.  
  
Severus’ breath came out as rhythmic moans, every movement timed with his pounding heart. I could feel his cock throbbing inside me, much as it had the night in Ashbrittle, but this time, the throbbing seeped into me. He hissed and tried to pull out, but already he was cumming. I felt as if all the colours and light were muddling, dark to light, black to white.   
  
I had tears in my eyes as I came for the last time, every fibre in my body thrumming with magic and heat. It was magnificent.  
  
Severus held me, his hand slipping from my throat, his face obscured in my sweaty bosom. My legs slipped from about his waist to fell to the bed. I could still feel his cock hard in me, and slowly it softened the throbbing waning. I was sleepy, sated, and euphoric.  
  
The man that held me, held me as if I were the only thing true in the whole world. I wondered if everything had changed. Would it be a mistake to him later?  
  
I closed my eyes; tears trailing down the sides of my face. I prayed not.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
In the early morning, I had to extract myself from Severus’ arms. He had pressed himself into my back as we slept on our sides, our faces pointed to the door. He did not rouse as I padded naked into the bathroom and took a shower. My hips and pelvis were sore as if bruised, but it felt much better than my back and ribs. I washed the dried cum from where it had seeped out of me and onto my inner thighs. I washed my hair again, thankful to be able to have hot water to do so.   
  
I only took a few minutes to wash before coming back into the bedroom wrapped in a towel. I found my wand under my discarded camisole, and cast a drying Charm on my hair. I dressed slowly, my sore ribs making it uncomfortable to bend down to the floor. I had only managed to put on my knickers and camisole, sitting on the edge of the bed, when Severus stirred, stretching like a large dark cat under the sheets.  
  
“The Charm,” he muttered, his mouth dry from sleep.  
  
I turned slowly. His hair was a like a black crow’s nest on the pillow, but he looked fine otherwise. There were pale red scratch marks on his bare chest, and a bruised bite mark on his left shoulder. I smirked.  
  
“Contraceptive…” he mumbled before yawning.  
  
I turned away and sighed softly. “No need.”  
  
“Potion?”  
  
I shook my head, my shoulders slouching. I felt Severus move in the bed, sitting up.  
  
“We cannot… I…” he stammered between shorter yawns.  
  
“I cannot have children, Severus,” I uttered in a near whisper.  
  
I felt the bed dip, and Severus was sitting beside me, a sheet wrapped about his waist. I could feel his eyes upon me—pity.  
  
“The odds of me conceiving are nil. I will not explain all the details. I miscarried several years ago and since then…” I trailed.  
  
Severus said nothing, but rose, picking up his discarded clothes and with the sheet still wrapped about his waist, disappeared into the bathroom. I lay back down on the bed, tossing my wand on the bed stand, and curled into a ball.   
  
Even if there was a possibility I could have children, I would have cast a Charm immediately after. As it was, I could not have children. I was surprised that I had even had sex at all. For years, my libido was almost nonexistent. My menstrual cycle had been off since the miscarriage and only recently was I back on some sort of pattern. I wanted sex, but as I listened to the shower come on, I knew I had only wanted it since Severus Snape returned from the land of the dead. I found it odd.  
  
I waited for Severus to come out of the bathroom to see if we were to continue ignoring the fact that we had coupled. I wanted to determine his feelings, if it were to affect our movements.  
  
“I’ll see to breakfast,” he mumbled, coming from the bathroom with his glamour in place.  
  
I nodded.   
  
He returned with a tray of coffee and sweet cakes. We ate on the bed, sitting across from each other, the tray in between us.   
  
Severus spoke first, nearly making me spill tea down my front. I was still sitting in my knickers while he was fully dressed except his boots.  
  
“Last night…” he began. “I don’t regret it.”  
  
I stared at him, his eyes set upon the tray between us. I chewed on my cake slowly and washed it down with coffee. His eyes bored into the tray, and I realized that he believed I had regretted… He  _had_  ordered me to kiss him.  
  
“You are the most infuriating man,” I grumbled, setting my coffee onto a saucer balanced on my knee.  
  
Severus raised face, his brow knitted.  
  
“You think so much is only about you,” I huffed. Severus’ eyes widened. “If I regretted it, I would have said so. If I did not want you to…to fuck me, I would have hexed your cock off!”  
  
He looked lost, almost childlike. I sighed, but a smile began to form.  
  
“You are brilliant, sometimes a pain to be around, but brilliant. I care for you, you silly ass!”  
  
I rose from the bed, dropping the cup and saucer next to my wand and began dressing.  
  
“You…care…”  
  
I pursed my lips. I had said I loved him—in a dream. I was not sure if I ‘loved’ him per se, there were things I did love about him, but the man himself? It was hard to say. He was too rough; too much of everything to be lovable, but part of me wanted to love him so completely…  
  
“We need to find the marker,” I said quickly. “And quickly…”  
  
Severus’ face hardened, getting back on task. “Yes. I have a few places to look.”  
  
I slipped into my boots, which looked stylish under the boot cut denims. “Let’s go.”  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Severus held my hand when we left the inn, playing the part of husband and wife. The sky had begun to clear after so many grey days, and we walked down the road toward Stoke-sub-Hamdon. I carried the brown canvas backpack on my back, now carrying a bottle of water and a couple of wrapped sandwiches we purchased at the pub before leaving.   
  
“The Priory and the church dedicated to St. Denis down the road… That is a place to start.”  
  
Severus glanced up and down the road, and then with mighty pull, held me close. We Apparated.  
  
The church was one of the more popular tourist spots in Stoke-sub-Hamdon next to Ham Hill. It was a peculiar church with ornately carved corbels and friezes, a favourite with historical societies and art historians in the area. The main draw was the Sheela na gigs, or abstract carvings of female figures with exposed vulva. There were two on the sides of St. Denis, among other fascinating ancient carvings. However, we found the churchyard empty so early in the day.  
  
This was where we found that marker, set into the outer wall near the tower. It was half buried with turf near a drainpipe. Just like all the others, it was blue-grey stone, out of place with the ham stone that composed most of the village. The labyrinth design was clear, and again Severus ran his fingers along the circuit to the tiny figure.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
Both Severus and I rose from our crouch before the stone. Severus had drawn his wand but kept it hidden in his trench coat. His glamour was still in place, and with a swift step, he moved to stand before me. I frowned into his back.  
  
“I did not mean to startle you,” an unfamiliar voice sounded, a male voice.  
  
Severus visibly relaxed and took a step forward. “Are the church grounds closed?”  
  
I peeked around Severus’ back to find an older gentleman in a tweed sports coat over a pair of ragged jeans. He was balding and he had a bad case of rosacea over his bulbous nose and cheeks.  
  
“No, no. You’re just the first people I’ve seen today…”  
  
Severus grasped my hand when I stepped beside him and I smirked.  
  
“I hate to be forward, but, um… Would you happen to be Mr. Prince?”  
  
Severus cocked his head, his glamoured face draining of what little colour there was. “Yes?”  
  
The gentlemen brightened and began digging into the inner breast pocket. “You’re just as he described…”  
  
I glanced to Severus and then back to the gentleman. Soon a letter was produced and handed to Severus. On the front of the envelope was the name S. Prince in ornate, flowing script.  
  
“Thank you,” Severus muttered.  
  
The gentleman smiled, revealing very yellowed teeth.  
  
Severus released my hand to rip open the Muggle paper envelope. I let Severus read; only catching the name at the bottom.   
  
“Sir, when did this letter come to you?” I asked, stepping toward the older man.  
  
“Ah, I’d say almost two weeks ago. The fellow who gave it to me passed me a hundred pound note to keep it. He said that a ‘Mr. Prince’ would eventually come by the church—I’m a steward, ya see. So I hanged on to it, looking for a fellow with long dark hair, interested in the corbels and stones…”  
  
Severus was still reading, his mouth tightening.  
  
“Was the gentleman well, the one who left the letter?”  
  
The gentleman nodded. “Well enough. He was older than my grandfather, miss, and spry to boot.”  
  
I sighed. Aberforth Dumbledore was well two weeks ago…  
  
Severus grasped my hand again, and leaning down, whispered into my ear. “We need to go, now.”  
  
I made the rest of the conversation quick, and walked away from the church, still trying to thank the steward, never learning his name.  
  
“He was being followed, but we are on the right path.”  
  
We were walking quickly down the road, west from Stoke-sub-Hamdon. Severus had shoved the letter into his coat pocket and pulled me along by the hand. It was not the same as it had been that day in Hogsmeade for his fingers wove about mine in a manner that kept me near his side.   
  
“Bridgwater now, then Highbridge. Your sketch was accurate enough. We must make haste…”  
  
I did not question Severus as he cut into a field, whirling about each other in a strange dance until we fell together, disappearing from Stoke-sub-Hamdon.

 

 


	15. XV

**XV**  
  
Severus rarely released my hand. After Aberforth’s note, which I still had to read, we moved faster, taking Bridgwater and Highbridge in only a few hours. However, in Cheddar, we were at an impasse. We had searched the parish churches, the excavated Roman villa, and the remains of a Saxon palace, and found nothing.  
  
To me, Cheddar was an odd village, and that oddity grew stronger as we moved toward the famous Cheddar Gorge. It was night as we walked along the narrow Cliff Road. I supposed it was close to midnight, and already I was growing tired. Severus did not speak, but trudged on, me beside him. Many times during the course of the day, I wanted to ask about Aberforth’s letter. The letter had set his jaw and furrowed his brow, and I was sure there was more to the letter than what Severus said.  
  
There were signs along the road advertising the Cheddar Caves, Gough’s Cave, famous for the discovery of the Cheddar Man, and Cox’s Cave. The Cheddar Man, the first complete human skeleton found in Britain had died nine thousand years before. I had read about it as a child in primary school, and in a scientific magazine at my parent’s practice, I had read about DNA tracing in 1997. It had been an interesting read, but I had never considered ever visiting Cheddar.  
  
Severus plodded on along the winding road until he stopped, the night too dark, and pulled me onto a sloping path just as the headlights of a cars passed us. Throughout the day, Severus had stopped many times, mid step, raising his face to the sky. It looked as though he were sniffing the air or listening, and then he would change direction as we walked and scowl.  
  
I allowed myself a small amount of quiet whinging. “I wish I were somewhere warm,” I had begun, Severus seemingly ignoring me. “A tropical island, maybe in the South Pacific, or the Carribean…” Severus grumbled something indistinct, and pulled me by the hand along the dark road. “Anywhere but here and now,” I sighed.  
  
I ended my whinging there as Severus stopped along the road, forcing me to run into his back. I doubted Severus had heard a word I said.  
  
“Hang onto me,” he whispered, and in the red taillights of a passing car, I could finally see Severus’ face. It was grave, tired. “It isn’t here…”  
  
I was beginning to hate Side-Along Apparition.  
  
When I could breathe again, I still clung to Severus in the dark.   
  
“Don’t step back,” he grumbled. “You’ll fall.”  
  
Severus lit his wand, and I found myself standing at the edge of a drop, at least thirty feet, to a leaf-strewn gorge.  
  
“Ebbor Gorge, near Wells. Let’s get below…” he said, answering my unspoken question.  
  
Severus grasped my arms, and despite my terrified squeak, pushed me off the edge. We fell, but before hitting ground, I felt magic cushion us. Severus had some ability to fly, and I vaguely remembered Minerva telling me about his escape from Hogwarts just before the Battle.  
  
Lighting his wand, we swept between the narrow passes of the gorge, moving south. My feet were aching, and my legs were heavy. Between the limestone faces, the air was dank and wet, but it was also dead, as if there was not enough oxygen.  
  
“Severus,” I hissed.  
  
Severus did not stop even as I slowed. He wrenched my arm to pull me forward. I hissed his name again, more urgently.  
  
I could feel it, a shift of magic, deadening the air around us. In the dark behind me, there was movement. I jerked on Severus’ hand, causing him to slow, but he did not look back.  
  
“I know,” he snarled. “Move!”  
  
We were running, my shoulders banging against rock as the passage seemed to narrow. I managed to slip my free hand to my pocket, having foregone the holster over my Muggle clothes. I knew that I could not turn to defend myself with Severus’ tight grip on my hand, so I tried to run faster, my boots slipping on the uneven ground.  
  
A strange whizzing noise sounded ahead of us, and suddenly Severus’ lighted wand went out.  
  
“Protego!” he hissed, and the light of the spell flashed in the narrow, blinding me. We did not stop running although I could feel someone approaching quickly behind and another ahead.  
  
Severus stopped suddenly as the passage widened, and in the dark, pushed me down to the ground as two Stunners flew over our bodies, slamming into each other creating a shower of red sparks.  
  
We stood, back to back, in the all-consuming dark, wands drawn. I listened, as did Severus, and after what seemed like an age, we moved simultaneously.  
  
I cast a Body Bind, which came from my wand as white magic, but behind me, green shot from Severus’ wand. In the flash of light, I saw my pursuer, a man in black robes, and I saw his dull eyes widen as he fell face first to the rough ground. Two bodies fell, one alive, one dead.  
  
I lit my wand as Severus did, seeing that we stood in a wide gap between the rocks with deep undercuts. In the light of my wand, I moved slowly to the agent I had jinxed and with the toe of my boot, rolled him onto his back. Uninteresting brown eyes followed me as I moved around him.  
  
I vocalized ‘Incarcerous’ and further bound the agent before moving to Severus who stood over the body of the second agent. I could feel air moving again as Severus knelt down to study the dead face in the wand light.  
  
“Why only two?” I asked in a whisper.  
  
“I think they were scouts of a sort, or merely sweeping the area. We surprised them.”  
  
In death, the Polyjuice slowly dissolved the borrowed face until we were looking down at not a man, but a woman. I did not recognize her, but it seemed that Severus did. His brow furrowed and the deep crevasse between his brows returned. The woman was younger than I was with short brown hair and green eyes that were wide in the shock of sudden death.  
  
“Eleanor Branstone, Hufflepuff. The last year I taught Potions, she caused a silver cauldron to explode, hurting her lab partner.”  
  
I turned away. I vaguely remembered the girl, she was perhaps three or four years younger than I was, but other than her name and her House, I did not know her.  
  
“Such a waste,” Severus spat, rising. “What have you caught?”  
  
His tone was angry, and he stalked over to the living agent. He knelt down and scowled at the frozen face staring up at him. I could see shock in the dull eyes.  
  
“This Department of Intelligence must incur great cost to buy the ingredients for Polyjuice for so many,” Severus muttered. “We can wait a while and see who this person is…”  
  
And so we waited. I Levitated the living agent under the undercut of stone, casting a charm for heatless, smokeless fire, Transfiguring a stone to act as a shield to keep the light from seeping into the passage. Severus, meanwhile, left in the darkness with the body of Eleanor Branstone floating before him. I did not question what he did with the body when he returned.  
  
We sat against the rock face, sheltered from a light rain that had begun. We watched the bound body in the enchanted firelight, and waited. Severus spoke little, showing me what he had found in Branstone’s cloak. A plain flask filled with Polyjuice potion.  
  
“That could be useful,” I said softly as Severus slipped the flask into his own Transfigured trench coat.  
  
Perhaps only twenty minutes passed before the Potion’s effects on the living agent ended. Instead of plain brown hair and eyes, dark, long hair ripped from a reshaped scalp and deep blue eyes stared at us.  
  
Roger Davies.  
  
“He was at Helston,” I told Severus. “He was the one who made a statement with Ron…”  
  
“Indeed,” Severus purred, rising to crouch under the rock, moving to Davies’ side. He ended the Body Bind, but left the Conjured ropes that held his limbs inert against his body. “You were in Ravenclaw, were you not?”  
  
“Snape?” was all Davies could manage to say.  
  
In the firelight, Severus seemed to grin. “In the flesh, Mr. Davies.”  
  
Davies reacted by gasping loudly, panicking. He squirmed on the ground as if to escape, but Severus grabbed the man’s throat and sat him up to face me.  
  
“It’s time for answers.”  
  
I shifted, my arms about my knees pressed to my chest. I held my wand in both hands and waited for Severus to move. When he sat next to me again, he aped my posture.  
  
“How did you interrogate combatants?” he asked softly.  
  
“Intimidation,” I answered, and then took a deep breath.  
  
Davies’ eyes flicked back and forth between us, his body quaking with fear.  
  
“Meaning that if you do not provide us with some information, Mr. Davies, you will end up like your partner,” Severus explained coolly.  
  
I said nothing, but cocked my head as I regarded Davies.  
  
“Are the rest of your ‘group’ nearby?” I began.  
  
Davies swallowed thickly and shook his head. “Martock.”  
  
Martock was about thirty miles to the southwest.  
  
“Were you there, at Castle Neroche?”  
  
Davies nodded.  
  
“You are under Ron Weasley’s command?”  
  
Davies’ eyes moved to the ground.   
  
I knew the answer, best put perhaps as: not exactly.  
  
“You attacked Pansy Parkinson and myself at Helston, but were you part of the group at Islington when Percy Weasley was killed?”  
  
Davies licked his lips, moving his eyes along the ground.  
  
Yes.  
  
“You know then that I had nothing to do with his death.”  
  
“You were there…” Davies trailed.  
  
I bit the inside of my cheek and waited.  
  
“Who is in command? Who is issuing the orders?”  
  
Davies eyes glazed. “Confidential.”  
  
The standard answer, I knew from working as part of the Department of Intelligence.  
  
“Was it Percy Weasley?”  
  
“Weasley is dead.”  
  
“Is it Cormac MacLaggen?”  
  
At this question, Davies’ eyes rose to mine. His face contorted and a renewed sense of fear gripped him.  
  
“Please, Granger, don’t ask me, please don’t!”  
  
Severus shifted, and then moved. I opened my mouth to stop him, but already, Severus was tearing into Davies’ mind with aggressive Legilimency. Davies began gasping, open mouthed, and his blue eyes wide. He tried to struggle, roll away, break the eye contact, but it was of no use. Severus caught hold of Davies’ shoulders and kept him still.  
  
Together, Severus and Davies spoke.  
  
_“Granger is the key. Knights must be destroyed or captured. It is my order…”  
_  
I stiffened the combination of voices as eerie as the words.  
  
_“Take the key, open the gateway, and give me the power to change this world…”  
_  
Davies gagged and Severus broke the spell. He let Davies fall back into the ground, his blue eyes rolling back into his head, his body shuddering. Severus fell back to sit on the ground, rubbing his face and his eyes with his hands.   
  
“He’ll be fine in a few moments,” he whispered.  
  
I was biting my thumbnail roughly at the words, the memory that Davies had held in his mind. Severus crawled back to sit next to me, and together we watched as Davies fell unconscious by the fire.  
  
“That was dangerous, Severus,” I muttered.  
  
I could feel his eyes against the side of my face. “Like me, in some ways, Davies has been programmed. He would never submit to intimidation or any other interrogation tactics. I was only able to extract a small amount of what is locked in that mind.”  
  
“You could have killed him.”  
  
“Perhaps…”  
  
I closed my eyes and bowed my head.  
  
“I could not see clearly, the programming is deeply ingrained, but those words were spoken by the man that the old Knights are calling a Dark Wizard.”  
  
“And this ‘change?’”  
  
Severus said nothing and I opened my eyes to glance at him. “I don’t know,” he whispered.  
  
When Davies regained consciousness, I gave him water from the bottle in my pack, resting his head in my lap. The interrogation began again.  
  
“My commander is not a Dark Wizard,” Davies said finally as the sky outside began to lighten. I had been questioning him gently for hours. I had switched tactics, from intimidation to nurturing empathy. It worked, surprisingly. “He is a great man…he wants to reverse everything Voldemort did…”  
  
I could sense Severus’ discomfort at the way I stroked Davies’ dark hair from his face. I ignored his heated gaze and continued my questions.  
  
“What does he want to do?” I asked softly.  
  
Davies seemed to smile. “He wants to help Muggles. He wants to bring about a revival…”  
  
“Revival?” I asked, curious.  
  
Davies nodded, his head rolling on my lap. “He wants the Muggles to believe in magic again… He wants to show the Muggles that we can coexist as one society.”  
  
I could not remember if Davies were Pure-blooded or half-blooded.  
  
“Is that what he told the agents in the DI?”  
  
“Not all of them. We were recruited…”  
  
Davies said no more, and gagged. Severus moved to crouch beside me as another round of seizures took Davies. Severus helped me lay Davies on the ground as he shook, spittle appearing upon his lips. I growled and rolled the bound man to his side.  
  
“The programming. It is a modification of his memory, no, of his thought process. Getting too close to speaking anything that might be of value causes the fit,” Severus ground out between his teeth. “I doubt we will get anything more from him before the programming kills him.”  
  
My eyes widened even as the fit began to end, rendering Davies unconscious again.   
  
“It is Dark magic, Hermione. It is cruel and potentially lethal,” Severus whispered, his breath ticking my ear. “Another fit will kill him.”  
  
I stared at Davies’ prone form, anger filling me from some deep well inside my body.  
  
Davies had been lied to—that much was certain… He had been seduced, perhaps, and then led to believe that he was in the right. Hadn’t Voldemort used the same tactic? I moved to sit back against the stone wall, crossing my arms about my chest, suddenly very cold. Severus joined me, and without asking, I leaned into him. He froze for a moment and then accepted my weight.  
  
“He said I was the key…” I muttered, growing sleepy against Severus’ warm shoulder. “I was the key to the ‘gateway.’”  
  
Severus hummed a sigh. “Yes.”  
  
“To the place where Merlin is imprisoned, Avalon.”  
  
“Yes,” Severus sighed again.  
  
“Avalon was not said to be a prison, but the resting place of Arthur…” I trailed, my eyes shutting. Severus shifted and my cheek fell against his chest.  
  
He was silent for a long moment, then, in a purr he asked: “’Damnatio memoriae’ of a type.”  
  
I nodded, half asleep. Damnation of memory, a custom of the Romans to pretend that disgraced Emperors never existed… The truth of Merlin and Nimue had been obscured, due to the Order of Merlin, the Knights of Walpurgis. Instead of pretending nonexistence of such places as Avalon and Merlin’s benevolence, generations of descendants had been charged to manufacture lies and spin tales. Perhaps Arthur never existed…  
  
Now, the truth was coming out, and it was all my fault.  
  
Whomever this Dark wizard was, he knew enough to make me believe that he had somehow been waiting for the ‘key,’ my inadvertent mistake. ‘He’ had been waiting for something like this, waiting to take advantage.  
  
Damnation of memory, I wished I could pretend that my life after learning of the Knights of Walpurgis did not exist. The only exception would be the man I leaned into, whose arm eventually wrapped about me to keep me warm.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
“A Portkey?”  
  
Severus shook his head. “It could be traced.”  
  
I frowned. “As soon as it activates, we Apparate…”  
  
“No. We have not found the marker yet.”  
  
I huffed. “We know where we need to go, what is the use of the markers?  
  
I had slept for about an hour when the sound of Davies struggling woke me. Severus had to lightly Stun Davies to keep him from screaming. However, the Stunner had nearly killed the man. He needed a Healer. I would not be responsible for another death.  
  
“The markers are not simply stones.”  
  
I frowned. “Explain. And while you are at it, tell me what Aberforth’s letter said.”  
  
Severus sighed, kneeling next to Davies, his wand having finished casting a healing Charm I did not recognize.  
  
“The stones mark the path, by touching them, we open the way to the goal. I destroyed the one at Staple Fitzpaine for only one reason. It cuts off the path for anyone to follow.”  
  
Severus rose from Davies side and moved out into the sunlit passage between the limestone faces. I followed.  
  
“It has not stopped them…” I trailed, losing momentum. “Will it guarantee that they will not find…?”  
  
Severus stretched after sitting and kneeling for so long under the outcrop of stone. “No. Aberforth said in his letter that someone was following him. He did not specify if they were traveling along the path of the labyrinth, yet he did not destroy the stones behind him. We were meant to follow.”  
  
I walked around Severus to face him. “What else did he write?”  
  
I had my hand out for the letter, but Severus did not withdraw it from his coat. Instead, he studied my face, a scowl marking his face.  
  
“The Muggle who had the letter, he was wrong.”  
  
“About?” I sighed, letting my hand fall to my side.  
  
“Aberforth dated the letter. It was written about four days before we came to Ashbrittle.”  
  
Understanding did not come, and I attributed it to the lack of sleep.  
  
“He had been running, trying to lose whoever it was that was following before entering the labyrinth. It did not work…”  
  
I licked my lips nervously. It meant that by the time we reached the goal, Aberforth could be dead and the gateway between worlds blocked by darkness.  
  
“We Obliviate Davies and leave him. Surely, those in his group will track him before long. By then, we need to be far away from here.”  
  
I could not argue. Severus was the one who could find the markers, although I could not conceive of how. I had put a great deal of trust in the man without much questioning, which struck me as odd as the sun shone down upon us, warming our skin and faces.  
  
“Davies said Martock…” I began. “We are not going there…”  
  
Severus said nothing, but turned back to where Davies lay on the ground, in the darkness under the low outcropping.   
  
I had miscalculated, although my rough sketch had been an estimate. There was no marker in Cheddar and we were closer to Wells now. The flash of a spell from under the rock alerted me that Severus has wiped all traces of our existence from Davies’ mind. I wondered then, where was the marker, why were we in Ebbor Gorge?  
  
The pressing of the brown canvas bag into my arms brought me from my reverie, Severus standing over me. I glanced back to Davies’ prone body, the Conjured ropes gone.  
  
“We go southeast.”  
  
Severus took my hand again as we left Davies behind. I knew I had to trust Severus for the time being until the time would come again for answers.

 

 


	16. XVI

**XVI**  
  
We acted the Muggle married couple again. At the mouth of Ebbor Gorge was the village of Wookey Hole, and the major attraction in the village was the paper mill and caves. We paid the fee to take the tour of both.  
  
Severus had cast his glamour and again, he was Mr. Prince. I was his wife, and no one seemed to pay us any mind as we followed the tour into the caves. It was cooler in the bowels of the earth and in some ways; it felt like the dungeons at Hogwarts.  
  
“The markers, runetones, whatever you would like to call them, come from the stone composing the Isle of Avalon,” Severus whispered in my ear as we followed behind another couple, American tourists. “It is a type of rock that is found mainly in Dorset, blue lias, and in parts of Somerset.”  
  
“This unique formation is perhaps the centerpiece of our cave, the Witch of Wookey Hole…”  
  
Severus and I gathered to see the formation, a stalagmite, that was darkly wet, made of limestone. The guide continued.  
  
“To give you a brief overview of the legend, as many of you might not be aware, the Witch of Wookey Hole cursed a young man from Glastonbury. The Witch was a bitter woman who cursed the young man to never have love. Once upon a time, she had been jilted. The man, after many years, became a monk, and sought the Witch to have his revenge. He chased her into this cave, and here she hid. The man from Glastonbury, now being a monk, blessed the nearby river and then splashed it on the witch. The power of the blessed water then turned the Witch to stone…”  
  
“An instance where there is almost no truth to the legend,” Severus whispered as tourists began to snap photographs of the stalagmite. “There was a witch who did exist, but she never turned to stone… The fallacy was the man from Glastonbury, it was the witch that came from Glastonbury.”  
  
“What do you mean?” I whispered back as the tour began moving again, but Severus and I remained  
  
Stepping off the tourist path, Severus moved about the stalagmite, lighting his wand to look in the dark niches under ancient curtains of wet stone. He searched while I watched until he stopped by the wall of the cave, his arm and lit wand disappearing in a low indentation.  
  
I moved over the slick rock, slipping once and grabbing Severus’ coat. He moved aside to let me see into the hole. Deep in the dark was a dry stone, out of place with the wet limestone of the cave.  
  
“One of the seven of nine placed the markers along the ‘caerdroia’ to lead their descendants to Avalon.”  
  
The carving into the blue-grey stone was slightly worn away, but I could see the design and the tiny figure, only a short way from the centre goal. I stepped back as Severus pulled his arm and wand out of the hole before shoving his free arm into the hole. I studied his face as his palm made contact with the stone.   
  
His lips moved silently, and he pulled away.  
  
“Come, we should go,” he said finally, his voice a whisper.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“Muggles cannot see the stones like we can,” Severus explained as we sat in a small pub outside of Evercreech later in the day. “Else, they would have ended up in a museum.”  
  
We ate a hearty stew with fresh baked bread and pints of pale ale. We had Apparated to Evercreech, about to set out for Small Down Knoll, the place Severus said the next marker laid in a barrow.  
  
“You touched them,” I stated, the bowl of my spoon resting against my lips.  
  
“There is magic and memory in the rock.”  
  
I had not touched the stones, and I wondered that if I had, would have felt some connection of magic? Severus ate quickly, evidentially hungry. I continued to eat as well, but slower. He finished before I did and sipped on his ale.  
  
“The next marker should be easy to find, unlike the one before. It must have been moved from Cheddar to a safer, more hidden location…”  
  
“But you found it.”  
  
Severus nodded, his glamoured face shifting. “It is like a whisper, or a feeling. We have been following the stones in the correct order.”  
  
“And if we hadn’t?” I ventured.  
  
Severus seemed to smirk. “We would not be so close to the goal.”  
  
It was odd, circling toward Glastonbury, since it was only miles away from Evercreech. We could perhaps walk to Glastonbury in a day or less.  
  
“The path is broken since I destroyed one stone, I am wondering now if I should have destroyed every one we have found,” Severus mused.  
  
“Would it have really made a difference?”  
  
Severus shook his head. “Aberforth was being followed… Danger ahead, danger behind.”  
  
I set my spoon next to my bowl and leaned back into the booth. It was odd having to think of Somerset as some great invisible labyrinth. There were not walls, but there were plenty of impediments.  
  
“Davies said that his ‘group’ was in Martock…” Severus continued, more to himself than to me. “I doubt we will be going so far as that.”  
  
I could find no consolation in his words. As it was, the pattern of our path had been slightly erratic. We were still inside the imaginary boundaries of a circuit leading to Glastonbury, but the markers were not at any exact distance apart along the circuit.  
  
By late afternoon, were we on Small Down Knoll, the sun beginning to move west for the evening. The knoll was higher than the rest of the surrounding pastureland, and the earthworks, like ramparts, ran along the edge of the flattened top. From the top of the knoll, I could see all around, the road below, the farm, and houses beyond.  
  
I had my wand drawn as I walked several paces behind Severus as he approached the string of barrows atop the hill. Despite the sunny weather and near cloudless sky, I felt ill at ease. We had been attacked before at Castle Neroche, and Small Down Knoll had a similar ambience to it.  
  
Severus stopped at the slope of the barrow furthest west on the hill. I watched him curiously, as he seemed to sniff the air, the glamour gone, and then fall to his knees halfway up the barrow. With his wand, he seemed to gently blast wandlessly into the grass and earth until there was a gouge in the ancient barrow.  
  
“These barrows have been disturbed, robbed even, but the Muggles would never have seen this…” I hear Severus say as I moved into earshot. “Come.”  
  
I hesitated, glancing around the knoll, anticipating the sound of arriving agents. However, as Severus reached a hand toward me, I took it, and together we knelt against the barrow mound, staring down at the blue-grey face of stone.  
  
“Touch it.”  
  
Severus’ hand moved to my shoulder as with my left hand, I leaned down, my hand reaching to place my palm against the dirty, carved stone. The circuit of the crudely carved labyrinth was the same as every other stone before it, only the tiny figure in a different location. The pads of my fingers pressed against the five-petal design in the centre, and then I felt it.  
  
It was like touching a live electric wire or plunging your fingers into icy bathwater. A shock stirred something deep in my blood and brain.  
  
Images flashed into my mind, like flying on a broom at high speed over the countryside. Then, jarringly, I saw a place as if zooming in to a particular spot. Market Cross, Somerton.  
  
I gasped and pulled my hand away, feeling as though my mind, which had travelled was suddenly back in my body. Severus had been watching my face all the while and nodded when I withdrew my hand. He touched the stone, and pulled away after a few seconds. Had my experience only been so short? It had felt like minutes or hours had passed.  
  
Severus manually replaced the soil, but cast no spell to replace the grass. Instead, he twisted to sit against the barrow, his arms resting on his knees.  
  
“You won’t destroy it?” I asked over the sudden gust of wind that swept over the knoll.  
  
“No.”  
  
I pursed my lips and looked at the dark soil next to Severus. I supposed it did not matter, in the end.  
  
We sat for a long while on the slope of the barrow. It was almost sacrilegious to do so.   
  
The wind was warmer than it had been for days, the sun, and clouds making the sky a wonderful shade of azure over our heads. The day was peaceful, quiet, and I soaked it in even as the hum of magic from the stone still coursed through my blood.  
  
It was strange to share such a serene moment with Severus. I wondered if such a thing would have been possible had he lived through the years after the War. I wondered if I would have had the chance to be near him, know him, or begin to care for him as I did in that moment.  
  
My thoughts turned darker, however, as I felt that unwelcome company could dash the tranquility of the moment at any time.   
  
The agents, commanded by some disembodied entity, were ordered to capture me. I glanced to Severus, who, so far, was safe from notice. Davies’ words were beginning to haunt me.  
  
The Dark wizard wanted to expose the Magical world to the Muggle world. Why? Granted, it was a novel idea, naïve by Davies’ telling, but I knew that if the worlds were to combine, it would be disaster. The Magical Segregation Act had been placed for very good reasons. Muggles had advanced far since the Sixteenth Century, but still the Muggle world was not in any position to accept the Magical world. The ‘novel idea’ was not as benign as Davies’ believed. Grindelwald had wanted everything for his concept of the ‘greater good,’ and that had included having dominion over the Muggle world. Voldemort wanted to be a god, immortal, and wipe Muggles and any Muggle-borns from the face of the earth. In both cases, they would have exposed the Magical world to the Muggle world.  
  
Such a union was not meant to be. Muggles had forced Wizarding folk to segregate the societies. Muggles had ostracized anything magic as the ‘devil’s work,’ and in the Twenty-First Century, it would be no different no matter if religion was no longer a driving force in society and government. A ‘witch hunt’ was still viable, no matter how the context of the phrase had changed.  
  
Nevertheless, what haunted me the most about Davies’ words was the idea that I was somehow a ‘key.’  
  
In the short time I had spent in death, the image of my mother had said something similar. I was the key and the keeper. I was not sure what it meant, exactly.  
  
Severus grasped my hand, and my thoughts lightened.   
  
“Have you ever been to Somerton?” he asked over the blowing wind.  
  
I had not, and I shook my head.  
  
“There’s a lovely bed and breakfast there…”  
  
I chuckled, making Severus frown. To hear him speak so lightly made me wonder if he was truly such a Byronistic hero of sorts, after all. I rose first, helping him up, still smiling. He had a suspicious expression on his face, the brooding darkness returning.  
  
Somerton, it was to be.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
We were the Princes again as we took the last room at the Lynch Country House. The tariff was high, but Severus seemed to have an unending supply of money in his pockets. We were installed in a room in the main house, and the first thing I did was take a shower. It was dark outside the window by the time I emerged, wrapped in a large, soft pink towel. The room, which was uniquely decorated, was a combination of pink and white. The large four-poster bed in the middle of the room had a floral decorated duvet, and near the foot of the bed was a handsome oak writing table.  
  
I was, once again, alone in the room. I sighed as I sat on the edge of the bed, looking toward the window. My brown canvas bag rested on a low bench at the foot of the bed with my dragon hide armour, but my Muggle clothes were missing. Besides the dragon hide, I had nothing to wear.  
  
I found my wand hidden in the canvas bag, and figured Severus had placed it there to keep it out of sight. I fell back into the bed, wandlessly Summoning the telly remote from the bed side table. I turned the set on to Sky One, and absently listened to the programme. I had not watched television since going to my mother’s funeral in Melbourne. It was a Muggle convenience that I had lived without.  
  
However, as I started to turn the volume down, the electronic device made a hissing noise and sparks lit at the back of the box. The telly died.  
  
I wanted to laugh. I had ruined several of my parent’s electronics. Magic and Muggle truly could not work well together in a modern age. I would have to mention the broken television to Severus; surely, we would have to pay for a replacement. It was always ‘hit or miss’ with electronics and me. They either worked fine, or exploded in varying degrees of destruction.  
  
I was left to the silence of the room. I began drying my hair, to pass the time.  
  
It was an hour and half before Severus returned to the room, his glamour in place, and several Muggle shopping bags dangling from his hand. He set them on the writing desk, and I immediately smelled food. He had gone into Somerton, it seemed, to bring back take-away, and new clothes for me.  
  
Take-away consisted of Chinese food, which I disliked, but did not complain. I was only slightly hungry, having eaten at Evercreech earlier in the day. Clothing consisted of a pair of khaki trousers, cargo pants; I believed they were called, a new grey camisole, and a dark green jumper. The underclothes were a plain white, all of the garments fitting well when I tried them on in the lavatory, but the last article of clothing was what I wore before Severus. It was a silken nightgown with an Empire silhouette, scalloped with lace, all in black. The gown fell past my knees, and when I studied myself in the mirror, I found the gown quite pretty.  
  
“Very nice,” I had said to Severus as he began dishing out chicken fried rice and some egg rolls onto paper plates. He glanced at me for only a moment. He seemed uncomfortable at the state of my undress.  
  
“I was not sure if it all would fit…” he started, his back to me as he stood at the writing desk.  
  
“It all fits,” I murmured, sitting on the bed, my eyes moving to the remaining shopping bag. I assumed he had bought some new clothes for himself as well.  
  
Severus sat at the desk and ate, after passing me a plate and plastic fork. I ate what I could, and then disposed my plate after retrieving my wand to Vanish the scraps.  
  
“Market Cross, or Butter Cross, is not far from here,” Severus stated, a grain of rice sticking to his upper lip.  
  
I smirked, rising.   
  
“We can go in the morning…”  
  
I was standing before him, his plate still in his hands, and pulled the grain from his lip, placing it in my mouth, not thinking. It was something I had done so often with Ron and his terribly messy eating habits. I blinked at my own action, and began to blush. Severus, however, tossed his plate to the desk, the plastic fork clattering against the stone surface. He pulled me into his lap, and kissed me.  
  
I made a startled noise into his mouth, but wrapped my arms about his neck.  
  
Severus pulled away, turning his glamoured face away, but still had his arms about my waist.  
  
“Dispel it,” I whispered.  
  
Severus blinked, and I realised he had forgotten about the glamour. He extracted his left arm from my waist and touched his wand resting next to his abandoned plate. His fingers slid over the dark oak, but he did not grasp the handle.  
  
“I rather like being Mr. S. Prince,” he mumbled, grumpily.  
  
“I don’t,” I said softly.  
  
Severus’ dark eyes narrowed. Even with the glamour, I could tell he was brooding.  
  
I sighed and pulled away. After Stoke-sub-Hamdon, I had hoped that Severus would simply… No, it could never be so easy, I thought. Severus Snape had ‘issues,’ and at that thought, I snorted. Severus was too lost in his own self-hatred to notice that I had moved back to the bed.  
  
He slowly dispelled the glamour and then Vanished the food. I watched him rise from the writing desk, snatching up the shopping bag and moving into the lavatory, shutting the door. I listened to his movements and water running.  
  
I began turning down the bed, switching off the lights so that only moonlight lit the room. The sky had remained clear since Evercreech, and for the first time in what seemed like months, I could see the waxing half-moon. I slid down into the bed, half sitting, half lying, waiting for Severus to return.  
  
He wore a pair of pyjama pants, black and with a similar fabric to my gown. His hair was damp and lank about his pale face. In the moonlight, the scars on his chest and back seemed to glow silver. He padded around the bed and sat on the edge, his back to me.  
  
“I do not know how this is to work,” he said softly, and I turned to my left side. I was not sure what he was speaking about. He slouched slightly, the scarred skin of his back stretching over hard muscle and bone. “Of all the times to be…” he trailed.  
  
I sat up in bed, frowning. Severus turned his face and all I could see was the end of his hooked nose.   
  
“I have no recollection or notion on how to behave around someone like you.”  
  
His words were strained, and I could tell he was having a hard time trying to say what he wanted.   
  
“I have never been ‘with’ someone, not longer than a few hours…”  
  
I bit my lower lip.   
  
“We have been forced together by outside forces, given a task, and all I would like to do is make you scream my name.”  
  
I was panting for air at his words. Had he never been any sort of relationship with another woman, one that demanded him to feel something more than obsession?  
  
“You confound me,” he whispered, turning his face away again.   
  
I pressed a hand to my heart, feeling the violent pound under my breast. Severus Snape could not remember me, and I supposed it was for the best. I was not an ‘insufferable know-it-all’ to him, that memory was gone. I was Hermione Granger, his companion. He had cared for me in healing wounds, or in buying me new clothes. He had protected me, saved me, and there were no real reason why he should. What did it matter if I were the ‘key’ and the ‘keeper?’ He had never expressed an interest in anything more than ascertaining Aberforth Dumbledore’s whereabouts.  
  
I thought I should say something, but I could not manage anything that would be in the least bit comforting or consoling.  
  
Since Severus Snape had returned from the land of the half-dead, for lack of a better term, it seemed that a part of me had also revived.  
  
Words would be meaningless, perhaps, and I touched his back, my fingers running along the scars. He, unsurprisingly, stiffened. Severus Snape was not a person that others touched.  
  
I moved under the covers of the bed to sit just behind Severus’ pale back. I did not embrace him, though I wished to, instead my fingers moved over his scars to his wide shoulders then up the back of his neck. Despite the oily and dampness of his hair, it was soft and smooth. I brushed at his hair that draped to his shoulder, pushing the length over his right shoulder. It was like stroking a half wild animal, his body tense and coiled as if ready to snap at me at any moment.  
  
The coil was sprung after my lips pressed into the back of his neck, and we rolled onto the wide bed until I was atop him. In the moonlight, his skin was like alabaster, his eyes like coals.  
  
“Tell me you care for me,” he whispered.  
  
Our lips were only inches apart, his hands grasping my upper arms to hold me above him.  
  
“I care for you,” I answered, my conviction true.  
  
How could I not care for this man?   
  
“Tell me that you want to be here now, with me.”  
  
“I want to be with you, now,” I whispered.  
  
I could not imagine going through this new world of mine without him. How I had lost my former perspective was not important. Nor was when.  
  
“Tell me that you want me.”  
  
His voice was smooth, like velvet or the silken material he had bought for me to wear. I wanted him. I wanted him in so many ways that I could not begin to vocalise it all. I wanted to find some resolution to our task. I wanted to know him better. I wanted to tell him about my dreams. I wanted his icy façade to melt. I wanted to see him flustered.  
  
“I want you…”  
  
Severus’ eyes burned as if smoldering, and his lips twitched, but he did not smile.  
  
“What is this?” he asked softly, and I knew his meaning well.  
  
“I don’t know,” I answered. I did not know if it was love, or something wrought of desperation. I had been asking the same question for a long while now. “It does not matter now,” I finished.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
There is a subtle difference between sex and making love. One consists of fulfilling a need; the other has much to do with trust and mutuality. I did not know what we were doing.  
  
Severus was dominant, as I supposed was what he preferred to be. I only could acquiesce to him, his every touch, no matter how unpracticed or rough, sent only delight through my humming body.   
  
The blankets had been kicked off the bed; my gown was a puddle of blackness on the floor, as was Severus’ pyjama bottoms. I knelt on my hands and knees, my head thrown back as I moaned toward the foot of the bed. Severus lay under me, his mouth lapping at my core, his tongue licking away every trace that flowed from my body.  
  
He held my hips still as I tried to squirm away. He growled against my pelvis as his arms moved to curl about my hips, forcing the cheeks of my bottom apart to delve deeper. His fingers moved to part my labia as his teeth scored against my clit. I jerked, a hiss passing between my teeth. Severus pulled his mouth away and I heard his lips smacking, his tongue tracing about his lips.  
  
I shifted as his arms released me, and grasped the root of his cock, causing him to gasp. I could not see his face as I sank down upon him, but I could feel his hands upon my back, fingernails scratching into my skin. I moaned as the need to feel him inside was met. Leaning forward, my hands resting between his shins, I moved. I rolled my hips and grunted.   
  
I felt as if I was on fire and even the sweat that trickled down my body was scalding. The position allowed for deep penetration, but Severus expressed a protest by sitting up suddenly and grasping my arms. He slipped out of me, but continued to rise, grasping my wrists behind my back and pushing me down to the bed.  
  
I anticipated the full sensation of being penetrated; instead, I felt his mouth upon me again. I shivered. I wanted more. I wanted him. I tried to pull my hands from his hold, but at my resisting movement, he pulled his mouth away, and I was rewarded with a sharp slap on my buttocks. My eyes widened, and a gasp passed my lips. I was shocked, but more than that, I was nearly mad with lust.  
  
I struggled again, and was able to pull my wrists free. I thought I heard a soft chuckle as I whirled about. I found Severus kneeling behind me, his face softened with a smirk. I gazed at him as he stroked his thick cock with one hand, the other curled into a tight fist against his thigh as if to keep the hand from moving. I licked my lips at the sight of a glistening bead of pre-cum on the tip of his cock. I wanted to taste it; a lustful compulsion that was squashed as Severus’ fisted hand rose and grasped my neck, pulling me up and against him.  
  
We kissed, sloppily, the tip of his cock pressing into my belly.   
  
This Severus Snape was the same man that had doubted moments before. It was not the same man who had denigrated me as a schoolgirl. I was not sure whom he was, but I was growing to like him.  
  
We fell to the bed, my left leg moving to drape over his slim hips, my hips shifting closer so that his cock pressed into the natural indentation of my pelvis. It was a natural place for such male anatomy to fit—the head of his cock pushed inside at my pressing movement.  
  
“Tell me that you need me,” he whispered.  
  
The haze of yearning cleared for a moment at his words and his face became clear, thin lips, hooked nose, dark brow and all. He seemed to levitate over me then, my right knee over his shoulder, my left leg curling about his waist.  
  
“Tell me,” he whispered, leaning down so I could feel his hot breath against my face.  
  
“I need you…”  
  
A violent thrust was all it took, and I screamed aloud. I could feel him tremble, his hands on either side of my face. His face had softened, his lips curling into a smile. It was the strangest sight, to see Severus Snape smile. I had no recollection of him ever smiling before.  
  
It made his face handsome.  
  
I clung to his arms as he moved against me, my face betraying my wonderment and pleasure. Perhaps my face betrayed something more, and Severus bent down to let me wrap my arms about his neck.  
  
“I need you,” he whispered against my lips. The timbre of his voice had changed, there was vulnerability there, and something more that made me kiss him. Adoration.  
  
I knew that if I were to lose this feeling, I would regret it for years to come. I had never felt so safe, so wanted. There was an intensity that had never existed before, and Severus was the only one to make me believe that I was adored.  
  
I held tight to him as the pressure began build inside of me. He moaned into my ear, his arms wrapping about me, to hold me impossibly closer. I bit into my lower lip to stifle my whimpers, but still they came out.  
  
Severus pressed his forehead into my shoulder, his mouth open to blow hot air between our bodies. The instinctual dance of joining always had me in an ecstasy, and so it was as I bit into his shoulder, climaxing.   
  
He whimpered at the rippling of vaginal muscles and the flood of juices that coated the flesh between our bodies more than the sweat of exertion. I was gone, the room, the bed under me, it was a million miles away. Only the glide of Severus’ cock into my body anchored me, but even that was faltering.   
  
I felt his seed inside me, hot and wet. Severus did not immediately pull away, but tenderly, pressed a kiss into my temple, trying to control his breathing by inhaling through his nose.  
  
When he did roll away, his softening cock making an audible popping as it was pulled from my clasping orifice, he moaned softly. We lay sideways on the bed, Severus closer to the foot. The front my body was coated in sweat that was beginning to dry in the air. Severus still had a hand against the back of neck as we lay looking up on the pink canopy of the four-poster overhead.  
  
We came together in the afterglow, embracing for a few moments. I listened to the pound of Severus’ heart as he stroked the side of my right arm. It was surreal, I thought, how everything had begun, how everything had been going.   
  
I began to drift off into a doze. Heartbeats were joined by a soft tapping, which made me frown into Severus’ chest.  
  
“Bloody hell…” Severus growled, the rumble in his chest waking me.  
  
He extracted himself from the bed and rose, the moonlight accentuating his pale body as he moved to the window near the side of the bed. I watched him, sitting up slowly, casting about for my wand to cast a Cleansing Charm over my skin. However, the sight of his pert buttocks, the scars on his back, the dark hair that covered his legs and the fringe of shoulder length hair spilling down his back, made me pause.  
  
The sound of the sash opening and the fluttering of wings brought me back to the moment. I quickly found my wand on the bedside table and cast several Charms, one to cleanse the stickiness between my thighs, another to clean the bed sheets and make the bed. In the moonlight, Severus whispered to an unfamiliar owl in thanks and plucked a thick letter from its beak. He turned from the window as the owl took off, opening the envelope. I considered switching on the lights, but already Severus’ dark eyes were reading the letter in the moonlight. His fingers moved, and several newspaper clippings fluttered to the floor.  
  
I picked up my new gown and let it slide over my skin before kneeling to pick up the clippings. I blushed as I noticed Severus’ slightly erect cock near my face. He was too absorbed in the letter to think to dress.  
  
I stood again, glancing at the clippings, the black print lettering clear in the moonlight. There were three in all; one from the front page of the Daily Prophet dated four days before.  
  
‘M of M Chaos! Head of Department of Intelligence Murdered!’ In smaller letters, next to a particularly old photograph, I read: ‘Granger suspected of murder, now missing.’ Dennis Creevey had taken the photograph at Albus’ naming ceremony. I remembered how angry Harry and Ginny had been that the press had somehow been allowed into the parish church at Ottery St. Catchpole.   
  
I snarled as I read the short article, written by none other than Rita Skeeter. I shuffled the paper to read the next article, apparently from the same edition of the Prophet as an editorial aside to the front-page article. It was a piece written by Alicia Spinnet, commenting on the unusual rise of activity in the DI, and the presence of agents with MLE Aurors. There were several sentences, at the bottom of the article, that caught my attention.  
  
_‘Sources in the MLE have expressed their reluctance to work with DI agents. Some Aurors are currently being investigated by the DI with no reason given. Other Aurors have been suspended, others sacked. As a member of the public, who owes much to the Aurors and the current members of the MLE, I feel that the DI has overstepped their jurisdiction. Many witches and wizards may not be aware of Muggle history, but government organizational take over has at times preceded war. Do we, as a society, want another war?’  
_  
I smirked, and then reading the last two sentences _: ‘Do we, after so many years, need a department in the Ministry that has such a tight grip upon our civil liberties? What is the Department of Intelligence, and when have we become enemies of our own government?’_ _  
_  
I found Spinnet’s editorial heartening. Someone besides the Knights had noticed the stench coming from within the Ministry, after all.  
  
I unfolded the last clipping, which came from the ‘Society’ page. It was a notice of the cancellation of Ron and Pansy’s wedding. I knew then who had sent the unfamiliar owl.  
  
“Read this,” Severus said, passing me the letter, moving to retrieve his pyjama bottoms and carrying them into the lavatory, switching on the light and shutting the door.  
  
I moved to the bedside and sat down.   
  
_“Dear H and S, I hope this finds you both well. Enclosed are some clippings you might find interesting.  
  
I wish I could write about some good news, but since my last correspondence, things have taken a turn for the worse. I have been cleared of any wrongdoing concerning our old friend H.S. Unfortunately, H is being implicated. There are no grounds for the accusation, not even in P.W.’s death. I have been to London to see H.J.P. He tells me that_ _‘Padfoot’ was also accused of several crimes he did not commit during his time as a so-called fugitive. H.J.P. has told me a great deal of the things I had not noticed during school._ _  
  
For worse news, G.G. has been apprehended by the ‘agents.’_  
  
I paused, glancing to the closed bathroom door. I could not hear Severus inside, but I knew that he was perhaps feeling as sick as I was at that moment.  
  
_‘H.J.P. is trying to local our mutual friend with little success. He is slated to be reinstated, but he feels he will be too late to help. I have been acting as much as I can in H.J.P.’s stead to find out large friend.  
  
P.F. is in hiding. Ashbrittle was attacked and that was when G.G. was taken. He protected P.F., and she is safe. She has been in contact, giving an account of how the ‘agents’ did not charge G.G., but simply took him away. We fear for the worst. G.G. is loyal. He will not talk. I swear I will find him.  
_  
_I broke off my engagement to R.B.W. The wedding is cancelled, but if you read the clipping, the gossip is that R.B.W. was the one to end the engagement. Lies. However, I now fear that by breaking off the engagement, his so-called professional attentions will be placed on my again. In the column, his reasoning has to do with capturing his brother’s murderer. H, I do not believe that R.B.W. can feel he is serving any ideal of justice. Finding G.G. is my priority, and I would rather do it without being noticed._  
  
_The Prophet, Spinnet, and others are refuting the DI’s evidence to your involvement on the attack in Islington. There is a growing consensus that the DI is getting too powerful. My other trusted contacts in the Ministry have told me that now that P.W. is gone, McLaggen is trying to resolve this PR nightmare. He is recalling agents, outing their identities. We have learned that there were approximately sixty agents under P.W.’s command. The names of active agents have been withheld.  
  
To make matters worse, there is a new group getting a lot of free press in the Quibbler. This group calls themselves the “Order of Merlin.” It has caused some alarm within the Ministry because it is a group that advocates a congregation of Magic and Muggle. The M of M is moving to take legal action against the group, as there is already an “Order of Merlin” of sorts. This “New Order of Merlin” as they are now identified is headed by Finch-Fletchley. The members consist of Muggle-borns and Half-bloods, mostly. However, there is some hidden agenda that both H.J.P and the “painted gentleman” believe.   
_  
_Again, manipulation has been employed to gather these people together. The “New Order of Merlin” is petitioning for the dissolution of the Act of Segregation. Not only that, but they are publishing manifestoes in the Quibbler, calling for the combination of Magical and Muggle government, among other things that are far too reminiscent of the Muggle-born Registration Act, only to register Muggles... Most see this group as some liberal, radical nuisance, which it is, especially to the Pure-blooded families._  
  
_The “New Order of Merlin” is harmless, but we can see it as guise for something larger, something our comrades have feared. Whether this “New Order of Merlin” is the public face of what has been happening to us, we cannot say yet. I will send more information on this rights group when I can.  
  
Lastly, be safe. Do not worry about us, we are doing what we can and will. All that matters, according to P.F. and the “painted gentleman” is that you find the goal. Regards, P.’  
_  
I refolded the letter and set it on the table atop the clippings. I chewed on my lower lip, staring at the parchment in the moonlight.  
  
“We’ll rest a few hours and then go to Market Cross,” Severus said from the doorway of the lavatory. The light was out and he leaned against the jamb in his pyjama bottoms.   
  
“Greg has been captured,” I murmured.   
  
“There is nothing we can do about that now,” Severus whispered, but I could tell that he was repressing a deep anger.  
  
Fear gripped me, not because Gregory Goyle would somehow confess to a secret, but because he was not safe. The ‘Snatchers’ had returned with a new face. What was happening to my world?  
  
Severus lay down, not slipping under the blankets. I lay next to him, my hands resting on my belly. I tried to keep my teeth from chattering. I rolled to my side, and already Severus’ arm had moved to hold me. I fit against his side, reading my head on his shoulder.  
  
“This has to end and soon,” he whispered.  
  
I agreed, and shut my eyes.  



	17. XVII

**XVII**  
  
We both touched the stone we found under the roofed structure in Somerton. The stone was part of the base of the cross near the ground. The stone was in plain view, but Muggles could not see it. All the same, the open area around the cross as it was placed on the crossing of two streets, made me wary. We were exposed, no matter that there was no one on the streets and the darkness hid us in shadow. I glanced to Severus whose dark eyes glowed as they gazed at my face. Our fingers intertwined as we touched the cool surface.  
  
The connection was made, and again, I felt a rush in my blood, images flashing behind my corneas and deep into my brain.  
  
“Glastonbury,” Severus whispered.  
  
I had seen it clearly. The path had cleared. We were closer to the goal, spiraling inward to what Severus called Avalon. I was not sure what the goal truly was or what would be waiting, but we knew how to approach.  
  
It was near dawn, we had walked from the inn, and had not seen another soul as we took the dark streets. I wore my new Muggle clothes under my Transfigured cloak.   
  
We moved like thieves, faces obscured our footfalls silent. I was sure that anyone who might peek out the window would believe that we were wraiths or ghosts. However, we were neither, and as Severus held my hand, I wondered what we were.  
  
The next marker was in Glastonbury, the Tor, and the last path. Glastonbury was the centre of several ley lines, an axis mundi. The concept frightened me as we swept from the Market Cross in Somerton to the outskirts of the village. Severus squeezed my hand as we moved along the dark road, only the setting moon, and the grey tinge of sunrise gleaming off the wet road allowing us to see where we were going.  
  
I had only managed a few hours of sleep, and even after touching the marker stone, I still felt groggy, my legs heavy. Even when we Apparated in the middle of the empty road, I felt as if I could lay my head upon Severus’ chest and sleep for a long while yet.   
  
It was stress, I knew, that made me weak in the limbs. However, it seemed I was not the only one overwrought, as we appeared with a soft pop in a field with high grass all around. Severus and I fell together in the grass, me on top. The clouds were turning pink over our heads, the sun rising.  
  
We lay together in the dewy grass, weary. We were so close, yet our bodies and our minds were dulled. There was heaviness to our bodies, when we finally started walking east toward the sun. Every step was a chore, like slogging through brackish water. Behind us was the village of Street, ahead of us, rising higher than the now dry Somerset Levels, was the Tor.  
  
The fields we crossed had once been underwater, drained centuries ago for land cultivation. In my half dreaming mind, I could see the seawater all around us, parting to allow us to pass as we headed for the light of a new day.  


* * *

  
  
  
I was not sure what Severus did, but we somehow managed to knock a reservation from a room at a bed and breakfast on the south side of the Tor. We were treated as if we were royalty, shown a pleasant room with a large double bed with citrine coloured walls.   
  
Severus drew the curtains closed, cursing that he had not though to apply his usual glamour. I wanted to tell him that it did not matter; we were almost to the goal.  
  
I could feel the pressure, as if the air around me were pressing against my flesh. We were so near to the end. The anticipation was suffocating. I had no better an idea of what I would have to do or what I would see than I did from the first time I realized I was how wrapped up in a plot. I retreated into myself, not even Severus could distract me, as much as I would have loved to found some sort of comfort in his arms.  
  
I fell asleep on the bed, my boots hanging over the edge of the bed, my face buried into a pillow. I dreamed as if I were waking.

* * *

  
  
  
I was sitting in my parent’s sitting room in their Headington house. It was just as I remembered before I evacuated them to Melbourne. My father was watching the telly, and my mother was standing by the doorway that led into the hall and the stairs leading to the second floor. However, it was not the door of my childhood memories. It was an archway of stone, and beyond was not the hallway.  
  
“This is the door, my darling, this is what keeps the others out,” my mother said, as I rose from the sofa to stand by her side. “This tower arch acts as the last marker, built by the Christians, the only remnant left when the power of Avalon shook down the church in the Thirteenth Century. Only this marker remains.”  
  
Suddenly, we were standing before a tower, before the open passage through the tower, facing east. The sitting room in Headington was gone. I could see beyond the arch, but not far. Mist and darkness swirled beyond. I was atop Glastonbury Tor, I supposed, and it stretched on into the mist, further than I believed the ground to go. Wind blew through the opening, and distantly, I could hear water.  
  
“Avalon lies beyond, over the Poison Sea, through the mist, through time. I will be waiting for you there.”  
  
I turned to my mother, whose radiant face seemed sad. She looked just as I remembered her the last time we had met. The sight gripped my heart and squeezed.  
  
“There are some that will bar your way. You must push through, Hermione. Fight.”  
  
My mother moved to touch me, but already, the dream was changing, fading.   
  
I was in Hogwarts, suddenly, sitting alone in the Great Hall. I wore my dragon hide armour, sitting where I always did at Gryffinfor table. Platters of food were all along the table, but there were no students in the Hall to eat. I could not smell the food or admire the golden plate before loaded with all my favourite things. I was too concerned with why the enchanted ceiling was reflecting everything below it. I could see my thirty-year-old self staring up at my reflection. But in the reflection, I was not alone.  
  
Sitting at the Slytherin table was a boy with long, stringy black hair, wearing outdated robes. My eyes shifted from the mirror like ceiling to where the boy sat, slightly obscured from my view by a great centerpiece of chocolate bon-bons on the Hufflepuff table. I stood, nearly overturning the bench, and soon I could see the pale face staring back at me.   
  
I took a few steps, watching as the pale face followed me. When the dark eyes caught the light coming in through the windows, I began to jog. I made it to the end of the Gryffindor table, only feet away from the Head Table.   
  
“What do you know about me?” a voice asked, not so aged, not so deep, but it stopped me in my tracks just at the end of Slytherin table. The boy, who was approximately seventeen, sat on the bench, his back to the far wall, ten or so feet down the table.  
  
I opened my mouth to speak, but already, glowing coal eyes turned upon me, oily hair swaying, and mouth twisting angrily.  
  
“What do you know?”  
  
I frowned. “I know who you are.”  
  
The boy looked away, visibly seething. “You know what is missing; you know who it is I loved?”  
  
I shook my head. I did not want to say.  
  
“Who are you, anyway?”  
  
I was still dreaming, I realised, and slowly I sank down onto the bench. Severus Snape’s eyes studied me, running along my face to my arms, to my breasts, like a lover’s caress. I blushed.  
  
“I am…” I began, but trailed.  
  
“I know you, don’t I?”  
  
His voice had only just changed from boyhood to man, and under his robes, he was far too skinny and pale. The manner in which his eyes narrowed crinkled his brow, but the dark chasm of brooding between his brows had yet to form.  
  
“Hermione, my name is Hermione,” I whispered.  
  
His eyes sparkled, “Yes, yes, I do know you.” There was a sense of wonderment in his voice as he leaned to his left toward me, a large pale hand resting on the bench next to him. “You’re the girl that touched me as if you wanted me.”  
  
I blinked. “I did…I do…”  
  
He straightened, swinging his legs over the bench to stand. As he walked toward me, he aged with every step, his robes changing into the clothes he wore the night we met in Grimmauld Place. Reaching down, his cupped my cheeks, and leaned over me.   
  
“It doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter…” he muttered. “I am lighter without that memory, whoever ‘she’ was.”  
  
I inhaled deeply and I could smell him, anise scented, something I had begun to associate solely with the man before me. In my dream, he kissed me, sitting next to me on the bench. His arms wrapped around me and soon I was enveloped in darkness.  
  
“Tell me that everything will be all right,” I whispered in my dream.  
  
“I cannot tell you that.”  
  
I sighed, “Tell me that I am not a substitute for ‘her.’”  
  
Lips brushed against my forehead. “You aren’t. You surpass ‘her’ in every way. Passion, power, beauty, love, loyalty, you are more than ‘she’ ever was…”  
  
It was what I wanted to hear, I knew, and not Severus’ words. All the same, it cheered me.  
  
“Time to go,” he whispered, his lips brushing against my temple to my hair. I did not want to go, I wanted to dream forever. Distantly in the dark warmth of anise scent, I could hear my mother’s voice, telling me that I had to go. It was time.

* * *

 

  
I opened my eyes to the dark room, the curtains still drawn. I did not see Severus immediately, the only light coming from the open door to the en suite lavatory. I found him sitting on the floor, leaning into the foot of the bed, his chin resting on his chest, asleep.  
  
I had slept for several hours by what the Muggle digital alarm clock read. It was well past midday. I rose stiffly, slipping out of my boots, sliding the canvas backpack off my shoulders. The cloak was next, then my Muggle clothes. I headed, naked into the lavatory. I bathed, the details of my dream already muddled memories, washing away just like the soapy suds washing off my skin.  
  
I leaned my forehead against the wall of the shower stall, letting the hot water soak into the muscles of my back, into my sore shoulders.  
  
Dreams, feelings, legends, lies, it had to end. I could not live my life on the run, for I did not think my body would allow me to run much longer.  
  
Severus was still sleeping when I returned to the darkened room. I dressed in my dragon hide armour, slipping my holster over my bound breasts. I pulled my hair back into a low ponytail, and smoothed my shirt down over the waistband of my trousers.  
  
I was again struck at how vulnerable Severus’ face was in sleep, how childlike. He was not handsome, but there was an untouched innocence in his sleeping face—a man-boy whose most protected piece of his soul was exposed only in his face. It made me want to kneel down beside him and run my fingers along his jaw, the stubble on his chin, along the bridge of his crooked nose and over the dark hair of his eyebrows.  
  
As I slipped into my boots, Severus’ eyes opened slowly. He stretched, his arms rising up, his head rolling. He coughed dryly as he stood up from the floor. We did not speak as he went into the lavatory, not bothering to shut the door. I blushed at the sound of urine hitting the toilet water, then the sink running and water splashing.   
  
I opened the curtains to a sunny afternoon. The sunlight made the room very warm, not just in temperature, but in colour. It was a lovely room, and part of me wished I could allow myself to enjoy it.  
  
Severus stepped out of the lavatory, his clothing different. We stared at each other, and then I smirked. He wore the same clothing from the night he arrived at Grimmauld Place in London. He seemed larger than memory of that night, more substantial. What pieces of my dream was left after waking, I remembered him standing in Hogwarts’ Great Hall.  
  
We glided across the floor toward each other, and I stood on the tips of my toes to kiss his face, holding it between my hands. The kiss never seemed to end, and in it, we spoke to each other without uttering a word.  
  
This was perhaps the last time we would be free to turn around and run. We could escape the madness, if we wanted. We could run away to a place where no one knew our faces or names. We could forget and live.  
  
We were faced with the great unknown, and it frightened us both.

* * *

  
  
  
The ‘path’ as Fannie had called it, led us that late afternoon to Chalice Well, at the base of Glastonbury Tor.   
  
Duty compelled us, and we walked hand in hand in our cloaks, the breeze of a May day against our faces. I could smell apples and seawater. We were being followed. Eyes weighed heavy upon us. The Muggles in and around Chalice Well took no notice of us and our cloaks, probably thinking us a new ager couple, about to ascend the mystical Tor so popular with pagans, Wiccans, and other new age folk.  
  
We came toward Tor field and the boundary to the path that the tourists used. However, just beyond the metal gate was a stone stela, approximately six feet high, made of the now familiar blue lias. The Muggles obviously could not see the stela and the design engraved into the surface. As we approached, we found that the carving was not of the labyrinth, but a larger inscription of the design I had seen in the centre or goal of the design. It was not a star, exactly, but more like a five petal flower, the petals narrow like tear drops, the pointed ends extending out in every direction.  
  
“This is the path,” Severus muttered, his hand extending palm outward to touch the smooth face of the ancient stone.   
  
I grasped his wrist before he could touch the stone, my eyes moving to my right. Severus lowered his hand, his fingers entwining with mine. The air around us had grown very still, and the distant hum of Muggle voices was absent. I ground my teeth, knowing that whoever had been following us had chosen the most inopportune moment to reveal themselves.  
  
“Run, Hermione,” Severus whispered.  
  
We had yet to turn.  
  
“Touch the stela, and then run.”  
  
I pressed my lips together, my right hand shifting to rise, to either touch the stela or draw my wand. Severus’ fingers on his left hand were moving under his cloak to his own wand upon his belt. I hissed in disapproval.  
  
“What do you think you’ll accomplish by letting me escape?” I whispered angrily.  
  
“I cannot have you hurt again. You said yourself, why must you be the one to always fight? I also recall you saying I was a coward…”  
  
I frowned, my hand reaching out to the stela.  
  
“For which I will apologise until you are appeased,” I muttered sarcastically even as I felt our pursuers approaching on foot behind us. “Please don’t make me do this, Severus,” I whispered.  
  
His fingers squeezed mine. “You are the key and the keeper, Hermione. I am merely your companion…”  
  
I choked on my fear.  
  
“Now go!” he hissed, releasing my hand.  
  
In a flash of black, Severus moved, turning, while a hand pushed me between the shoulder blades. My palm slapped against the face of the blue-grey stone just as the sound and smell of spellcraft flew around me.  
  
The contact of my skin against the stone made me gasp. A shock passed through my skin, an arc of energy moving along my bones and blood to my brain. The ‘path’ appeared and before me was the sloping entrance to the true caerdroia, opaque mist forming the walls of the ‘fortress of turns.’  
  
I heard hexes and curses slamming into the ground behind me, and then Severus’ voice.  
  
“Go!” he roared in a terrible voice.  
  
I ran, not daring to look back. I left Severus alone to his self-assigned fate, and I hated myself for every pounding step I took upward.  
  
  
  
**_End Part Two_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Part II


	18. XVIII

**_Part Three_** __  
  
She flies with her own wings  
Alis volat propis  
  
  
  
  
  
**XVIII**  
  
My mother’s grandmother had been a worldwide traveler. In fact, my great-grandmother inspired my mother to visit every county in Britain. Of course my great-grandmother, had travelled to the continent and beyond, mostly by train or steam ship. In modern times, my parents had urged me into the family sedan and off we went.  
  
Sitting on my mother’s mother lap as a girl of six, I looked at the albums of mementos and photographs. My grandmother loved to recount the stories her mother told her. She taught me about Britain, the villages, the counties, the legends, and all the little things that would keep a girl’s attention.  
  
“This is Glastonbury Tor,” I remembered my grandmother saying, pointing to an old postcard pasted onto the page. The image fascinated me, sunlight streaming through the passage from the east, making the printed sepia picture seem to glow. I absently listened to my grandmother’s words about the legends surrounding the place, for I was too enthralled by the picture on the post card.  
  
However, when I came, twenty-four years later, to the top of the Tor, there was no sun to be seen; only the ambient glow of sunlit mist blocking any sight of the world beyond the hilltop.  
  
The path had led me about the eastern side of St. Michael’s Tower, and around to the western face. I stood approximately a hundred yards before the western façade, out of breath, my face sweaty.  
  
The Muggles who had been ascending along the tourist’s trail had disappeared, and the only sound I could hear was the sea. The gentle sound came from beyond the tower; a sound I knew could not exist in my age, but in ages past. I had slipped through a crack to another plane, it seemed. I was not disturbed by this fact, though I knew any sane person would be.  
  
As I regained some measure of breath, I straightened to gaze upon the Tower, my eyes moving from the top down. I then looked through the Gothic arch through the Tower, to the other side, and what I saw was not more mist. It was blue sky.  
  
The Muggle world, the real world, was visible through the arch, facing east. Muggles could be seen milling about, taking pictures, other grouped together to look at unique architecture on the eastern façade. I began to move again, transfixed.  
  
I neared the threshold of the arch, perhaps only twenty feet or less away, when an unfamiliar voice rang out.  
  
“Stop!”  
  
The vibration of air caused by the voice startled me, and the mist encroaching about the Tower. I whirled about, my wand drawn, but I saw nothing. I could not even tell where the voice had emanated.  
  
“Step any nearer the arch, and you will let them inside,” the voice said again, but more as a rebuke than a shout.  
  
I had heard the voice somewhere once before, but I could not recall where.  
  
“The boy is still holding them off from passing the marker.”  
  
The origin of the voice stepped out of the seemingly impenetrable mist, and for the first time in weeks, I felt relief.  
  
Aberforth Dumbledore did not look well, but he was alive. His glittering blue eyes were unchanged, but he seemed thinner, his long white hair and beard was matted with dirt and grime. In so many ways, he looked like his older brother, but shorter and leaner in the face.  
  
“It will only be a matter of time before they pass by him,” he continued, stepping from the western end of the Tor. As the mist cleared, I could also see that his clothing was in tatters, the old dark green cloak over shoulders the only thing untouched. “And when they come up the path, you must be prepared to kill every last one of them.”  
  
I blinked, lowering my wand.  
  
“How long have you been here?”  
  
Aberforth was only an arm’s reach away, and I realized then that he held his wand in his left hand, his right arm limp.  
  
“A week.”  
  
I clenched my wand, feeling the impulse to cast some sort of Healing Charm on the ancient man, or a Cleansing Charm.  
  
“Your letter at Stoke-sub-Hamdon mentioned that you were followed…”  
  
“I burnt the bodies,” Aberforth said, interrupting gruffly. “Twelve of them.”  
  
I lifted my chin. “Department of Intelligence agents?”  
  
Aberforth tried to shrug, but only his left shoulder rose. “I s’pose. They did not speak. They managed to find a way to get around the marker stone, and they followed me. They all had on the same sort of velvet-type black cloak. They all were Polyjuiced.”  
  
“Any familiar faces?”  
  
“Kids, most of them, my brother’s beloved students…”  
  
A great crack drowned out Aberforth’s words, and he turned sharply, staring out into the mist. Slowly, he turned back to me, unperturbed.  
  
“The others, are they safe?” he then asked.  
  
I licked my lips, as a softer crack seemed to echo off the mist. “Horace Slughorn is dead.”  
  
Aberforth’s eyes darkened. “And Fannie?”  
  
“Safe, but one of the others has been taken.”  
  
Aberforth shifted on his worn boots and then took a step forward, but past me toward the Tower.  
  
“We don’t have much time,” he said suddenly and I watched Aberforth’s hunched back straighten. “The boy is not going to be able to hold them off much longer.”  
  
I bit the inside of my cheek. If Severus were to fall—there would be hell to pay.  
  
“You’ll have to open the gateway when it is safe. Once you are inside…”  
  
Another crack, louder than the first, shook the very ground under our feet. I stumbled, as did Aberforth, and I grasped his limp right arm to keep him upright. Aberforth did not look at me, but through the arches to the blue sky beyond.  
  
“The only way to end this madness is to destroy the tree.”  
  
“What?”  
  
I had not realized I was whispering, but Aberforth’s face turned to me, his eyes narrowed.  
  
“You know the tree, Miss Granger. You also know what is imprisoned inside…”  
  
“But how can I destroy it?”  
  
My voice had taken on a frantic edge even as the ground shook again and a piece of decorative sculpture fell off the façade of the Tower, smashing into the earth several yards from where Aberforth stood.   
  
“Of the descendants of the seven of nine Morgens, the Knights never had the power to destroy Merlin. We had our own ways, abilities, and affinities. But it was the eighth, Nimue, who had the power to imprison Merlin, and eventually destroy him. You are descended from that witch.”  
  
Just as the others had said, Aberforth believed me some descendant of legend.  
  
“Nimue had the power over the elements. Nimue could manipulate water, as it was believed that she was descended from an ancient water deity. With her descendants, other elements were brought under the reign of the heir. Merlin had powers of his own, and the combination of the two bloodlines produced powerful offspring. That heir is you, Miss Granger, and _only_ you can bring this to an end.”  
  
Aberforth’s words were imbued with power, a power that seemed to run through the Dumbledore line. I was forced, by that power, to accept the truth. I would have to burn a sacred tree of Avalon and kill the evil blight inside.  
  
Simpler said than done, I thought, as the ground shook again, accompanied by an ear splitting crack of magic. Aberforth had turned again, and limping as quickly he could, he moved away from the Tower.  
  
“Come with me, girl!” he called. “The dark approaches. It has begun!”

  


* * *

  
  
  
When my magic first manifested at the age of seven, it frightened my parents and me. It was not something so simple as Levitating or Vanishing an object. It was not so benign as Summoning or basic Transfiguration.  
  
I set the house on fire.  
  
It was the middle of the night in the winter, and I had had a nightmare. After so many years, I barely remember what the nightmare was about, but it had frightened me. I had sat up in my twin bed in my pink bedroom with my childhood books, my childhood toys, and my favourite stuffed bear tucked under the blankets next to me. I screamed and screamed as around me the bed was burning.  
  
I was not certain as to how it had happened, but flames trickled from my hands clutching my bear, and the stuffing and soft manufactured fur melted. The flames of blue and white rushed all around the bed, to the floor, to the walls. The fire alarms in the house were wailing, my parents were screaming. I could see them from the open bedroom door, beating back the flames with a flannel blanket, my mother’s honey coloured eyes wide with fear.  
  
“Hermione!” my mother had screamed, and suddenly, the terror of my dream was gone, and I stopped screaming. Instead, I was crying. I had feared fire as a child, terrorized by the thought that my parents would die in a fire. I did not know how that fear had begun, perhaps from the telly, or the newspapers recounting so many tragedies.  
  
The threat of losing my parents to the fire made me wail and cry. And it was how the fire died as suddenly as it began, leaving smoking blackened devastation in its wake. I remembered jumping from my ruined bed and launching myself into my mother’s arms. My father called the fire brigade, and soon I was asleep again my mother’s arms while my father scratched his head, trying to explain how the fire started.  
  
The first manifestation of magic was soon followed by others, but never again did fire erupt from my body as if I were holding it inside. My parents repaired my bedroom, at great cost, and installed a smoke alarm next to the door. They were rattled for good reason. The fire, they believed, could have killed me. However, that night, I did not have a mark upon me. I had not been burnt, or suffered from any sort of smoke inhalation.  
  
A mystery, my father had said, a fortunate mystery. By the time I went to Hogwarts, it was all a distant memory, forgotten.  
  
However, the mystery was now gone, replaced by a truth that would have seemed as unlikely as the existence of magic to me when I was seven years old. Part of me wanted to believe that my life for the past month was something of a cosmic joke. I wanted to laugh; I wanted to smile, and most of all, I wanted to have done with it and live a normal life for once.  
  
The moment had come and like an invading horde, they came, appearing out of the mist.   
  
Aberforth stood next to me, his left hand rose, his wand pointing. The mist, across from the western façade of the tower, obscured us. His ancient face contorted horribly, and it began.  
  
“Avada Kedavra.”  


* * *

  
  
  
  
The sacred caerdroia had stripped away so much of the enchantment of the modern magical world. I could feel the difference on the Tor, the shift of magic, as if the whole world were off-kilter. It was if there was a magnifying glass over our heads, or around us, us being Aberforth Dumbledore and myself. The first Curse struck and three men went down. However, I did not see dull faces and eyes, like generic stand-ins for human beings. I saw faces I recognized.  
  
There was shouting, chaotically shouting, and the figures that came into view were not in the least bit interested in where they were or why, but were searching the mist.  
  
“Find him!” a particularly shrill female voice called through the mist. “He took Branstone’s potion…”  
  
I blinked as Aberforth moved to Curse the next three faces that came near.  
  
“He’s attacking from the mist!” another voice, male, called as three more familiar faces tumbled to the ground mid run. “Go left!”  
  
Aberforth grunted as he began to move away from my side. The last I saw of him were his brilliant eyes, glittering as he looked down at me.  
  
Black cloaked figures were moving before me, lost in the mist that was obscuring even the sight of the Tower. I stood dumbly for only a split second as a figure lumbered into view.  
  
Finch-Fletchley nearly collided with me, his eyes wide. He wore the cloak of an ‘agent,’ and I realized then that even I had no idea who the ‘agents’ had been during my tenure attached to the DI.  
  
“Here!” he shouted.  
  
A bolt of green, sickly smelling magic streaked over my right shoulder and soon Finch-Fletchley was lying on the damp grass, dead eyes staring up at me.  
  
“Damnit, Granger…” a familiar voice hissed from my back.  
  
Shock streaked through my body as a pale hand slapped over my mouth to stifle any noise, and I was dragged back into the mist. My mind came back to me, and I twisted against the arm that held me fast.  
  
Severus’ face was bloody, the bright red like some insane paint of an ancient Celt warrior. His eyes burned, his lips twisted back from his crooked teeth that were also red. He took a limping step back from me, and I studied him. His cloak was gone so that I could see his wiry, bare arms were blackened with Curse burns and bruises. His wand was pointing to the ground and his left arm wrapped about his middle where I could see dampness wetting his jerkin and the front of his trousers.  
  
“Kill them! Fight!” he ground out, his voice wracked with anger and pain.  
  
I lifted my chin defiantly as the shouts of those lost in the mist tried to find Severus. I knew that the only person who could use Branstone’s Polyjuice potions could be Severus. I imagined he used it to confuse his attackers, but somehow, they had managed to chase him up the Tor.  
  
“We’re too close to have your lose your nerve now!” he hissed.  
  
A black figure emerged from the mist, and I narrowed my eyes as it moved to cast into Severus’ back. With a practiced motion, I cut the figure down, seeing that it was another familiar face—Percy’s secretary.  
  
Severus limped around the corpse, giving me a heated glance, and slipped into the mist again.  
  
“Go!” he snarled, and I moved.  
  
The Killing Curse left a hollow feeling in me, which was soon filled by an icy cold. I hated the feeling. However, as Severus left me alone, I knew that I could not always depend on him to save me. I had been such a fool. I still clung to some romantic notion that I would always be saved. Harry, Ron, Severus, they had all protected me, but I could not rely on that protection any longer.  
  
I had truly crossed the point of no return. Every last bit of innocence left me as I killed. The bitterness of loss, the sharpness of hate, and the heat of anger propelled me. I meant to kill, and so I did.  
  
The horde of black cloaks was whittled down to a group of twelve, but on the ground, I had to step over bodies every few paces, mentally tallying names with the faces. Naïve fools were the only thing I could call them. They had died just like so many before them—like the Death Eaters, like those who followed Grindelwald, and all the Dark Wizards before them.  
  
I was walking through a graveyard where the bodies had yet to be buried.  
  
The mist began to clear, unexpectedly, and somehow I knew the climax was near.  
  
The twelve surviving ‘agents’ had gathered near the base of the Tower, apparently finding each other and banding together. As the mist rolled back to the very edges of the Tor, I found that I stood in the middle of the dead. Aberforth Dumbledore was standing near me to my left, injured and breathing abnormally. To my right, closer than I had expected, was Severus, fresh blood dripping from his newly broken nose.  
  
The two men managed to move to stand next to me. We stood together, staring back at the faces of those who wished us dead. I could see so many that I wished had not condemned themselves to this moment. Susan Bones, Hannah Abbott, Dennis Creevey, were a few that I knew immediately. There were others, older witches and wizards, their faces stony, their wands drawn.  
  
“A storm approaches, but the wind is still,” Aberforth murmured. He stepped forward, standing before me. “My time has come, I will perform the sacrifice,” he whispered.  
  
I frowned, about to speak, but before any words could come, Aberforth was gone from my reach. Severus moved, and grasping my arm tightly, kept me from moving.  
  
Before our eyes, Aberforth appeared again even as half of the figures below the Tower moved. I was shouting, but my words were unintelligible as green and red light flashed shadows into the façade of the Tower, and bodies fell.  
  
One by one, the people who had once counted as allies fell in the light, until there were only four left standing. One, however, was on his knees.  
  
I broke free of Severus’ weakening hold, and I was running, my legs straining as I leapt over the dead. My boots pounded into the grass and with every step, madness took me. I did not know Aberforth Dumbledore, and I doubted that were many that did, however, I ran still.  
  
Aberforth knelt before the Tower, his eyes pointed beyond the remaining three figures, to the blue sky through the passage into the real world. I skidded in the grass, falling to my knees before Aberforth. His eyes did not see me, but he spoke to me in a ragged whisper.  
  
“The way is open with blood.”  
  
I could hear the blood in his lungs, in his throat, and as he continued, the blood trickled from his lips and into his white beard.  
  
“Blood and bone, fire and stone, the gateway appears in the presence of the key and the keeper. This is the end, Miss Granger, you know what to do…”  
  
I grasped Aberforth’s shoulders as he slumped forward, but there was nothing I could do. Blood stained his beard red and black, and his eyes shut for the last time. The Dumbledore line ended.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
A part of the Arthurian legend and an explanation of Merlin’s imprisonment were read to me as thus: Merlin slept until the time Arthur’s power was needed in Britain again. I always wondered what that really meant—Arthur’s power. Did it refer to a time when Britain would have to unite to battle some outside force or threat? If so, the need for a man like Arthur Pendragon was wasted. The people of Britain had banded together many times through history to defend the lives of the people or the land they called home. It made me doubt the validity of the explanation once given to me in bedtime stories. Merlin was the one with the power, and because of that power, he was imprisoned.  
  
I stood near the threshold to Avalon, wondering why Merlin’s power was needed. How could someone utilize that power? I doubted that if given a choice, the grand wizard Merlin would not willingly give his power to anyone. As in the misinformation of the tale of Nimue and Merlin, his power would have to be stolen.  
  
It made no sense to me. What difference did it make if one were somehow to obtain Merlin’s power? It was not the same as if someone were seeking the Hallows to ‘cheat death.’ If it were true that some Dark wizard wished to expose the Magical world, what would be the benefit?  
  
Was it a backhanded tactic to subjugate the Muggles? I wanted to laugh. Muggles had their own brand magic—technology. Perhaps five hundred years before, wizards and witches could have easily taken over the world, but what good would that be? It would be a desolate world, magic would die out, and humanity would end, perhaps.  
  
No, to have the power of the most famous wizard of both the Magical and Muggle world denoted one thing.   
  
Personal gain.  
  
I had learned during the War that there was no such thing as the ‘greater good.’  
  



	19. XIX

**XIX**  
  
I left Aberfoth where he knelt like a monolith of an old civilization, and stood to wipe my fists into my trouser legs. My eyes scanned the Tor, and over the many bodies that dotted the grass. Severus had disappeared. The loneliness I felt was crushing.  
  
Behind me, I could hear the shifting of feet and the flap of cloaks against legs. I had nearly forgotten that my trial was not yet over, and how I wished it were over!  
  
“Hermione Granger.”  
  
I clutched my wand at the sound of my name, but I did not turn. If I were to be killed with my back turned, it did not matter to me. I simply did not want to turn and face the familiar voice and see the truth.  
  
Harry had been right. There was something familiar about the attack in Islington.  
  
“Hermione…”  
  
The voice had softened, and it made my stomach twist.  
  
“You need to do as we say.”  
  
I pressed my lips together and inhaled through my nose. The scent of blood, ozone, mist, the sea, it was making me ill. I raised my chin and turned my face first, then my shoulders.  
  
Three figures in black with cowls pulled over their heads faced me. Two stood before the third, all tall, all with faces obscured. I regarded the three with a hard eye and moved my feet so that my weight was evenly distributed, my wand pointed, my jaw tightened.  
  
The figures shifted until one limped forward, pale hands emerging from the darkness of the cloak. The pale hands lifted the cowl and pushed it back.  
  
“There has been enough death.”  
  
Percy’s eyes shimmered in the ambient light of the mist. He gazed at me, pleading for something I would never do.  
  
“Traitorous rat!” I hissed. My own voice startled me; the venom within my words sharpened my tongue. Percy did not react.  
  
“That, I may seem, to you, Hermione. However…”  
  
“You’re responsible for these people, our old friends, our allies…”  
  
I was quaking with anger. I had not wanted to ever believe that Percy, my friend and confidante, had had a hand in making my life a nightmare.   
  
“Casualties of a revolution,” he whispered, taking a step toward me, his face softened.  
  
I straightened my wand arm, my chin rising so I looked down my nose at my friend. I had been duped, betrayed, mislead. Percy Weasley was just as slippery as he had been during the War. I should have listened to Ron; I should have not been so naive. I was paying for it now.  
  
“It’s time for a new world.”  
  
“You have no clue what you are talking about,” I spat.  
  
Percy took another step forward, and I took another step back. His wand appeared from his cloak, and I knew it was time to end it all.  
  
We cast simultaneously. Percy’s Stunner crashed into mine and cancelled each other out. I did not want to kill Percy, but I did want to see him out of my way. I wanted Severus to appear at my side, I wanted his strength, but he was not there, he was not at my side.  
  
The other two figures watched silently, and this made me nervous. Why were they simply waiting?   
  
Percy cast again, and I moved. I narrowed my eyes, rolling out of the path of another Stunner. When I came to my feet, I did not look to Percy, I Stunned one of the cloaked figures, the power of the hex made the wand in my hand tremble violently.  
  
Percy’s voice called out as the body fell, it rolling on the ground stiffly until I saw the face. It was a female face, one that I knew very well, but one I had not seen for a long time. Lavender Brown.  
  
There was no time to make my mind work as Percy began to pursue every step I had taken. The duel had begun, and I ground my teeth as every hex became more violent, more powerful.  
  
The remaining cloaked figure seemed to stand like a statue, as the hexes became more vicious, Percy’s anger making him move faster from a limp to a lope. The speed also made Percy sloppy. His Stunners had turned to Torture Curses, anything to keep me from moving, to incapacitate me. It was not enough; I had use of my limbs, and reign over my fear and anger.  
  
I had my own programming. I had been an Auror, I had been an active participant in the War. I was not going to let Percy Weasley hurt me.  
  
“Avada…”  
  
The rage expressed on Percy’s face was terrifying. I could not understand it—had our friendship meant nothing? His body arched as his wand hand raised, all the love, all the companionship, it was gone and his eyes flicker with darkness.   
  
“…Kedavra.”  
  
The green glow of the Killing Curse burned into my corneas, but I did not fall, did not die.   
  
Percy’s taut body in the midst of the Curse, fell like a stone, face first into the grass. My mouth was open to scream, but no sound came. Instead, my eyes swiveled to the caster, the remaining figure standing just before the arch of the Tower.  
  
I was frozen in place, my wand out, my eyes wide, my mouth agape. I stood with my right shoulder pointed toward the Tower as the last upright figure stepped carefully to Percy’s body.  
  
I had been wrong. It would not be the first or last time, I was certain. Percy was not the one who sought the power that lay beyond the Tower, across the Poison Sea. I had been so wrong.  
  
Kneeling down, wand curled into a thumb, another set of pale hands rolled Percy onto his back. Furious blue eyes stared up at the mist overhead.  
  
“You would never know what it is to lose a sibling.”  
  
I lowered my wand, but glanced to Lavender’s Stunned body. She was not dead, but she was not breathing properly either.   
  
Lavender and Percy. Lavender worked for the Daily Prophet as a gossip columnist. Percy was the Head of the Department of Intelligence. There were others lying among the dead who were in other positions of information. Finch-Fletchley was once part of the Wizengamot Administration Services, but then transferred to the International Magical Office of Law, and so many more were attached to the Department of Intelligence.  
  
“You might understand what it is to lose someone of your own flesh and blood, but you can never understand…”  
  
The cloaked figure stood after shutting Percy’s eyelids and took a step toward the Tower, facing the arch and the blue sky beyond  
  
“You would know what it is to kill one of your own flesh, though, wouldn’t you?”  
  
My hands trembled, my wand beginning to slip from my fingers.  
  
“I didn’t…” I started, my voice little more than raspy whisper. “I didn’t kill her.”  
  
The figure whirled upon me, wand trained between my eyes. Heavy steps brought the figure right before me, the tip of a nine and one quarter chestnut wand digging into my brow. Under the shadowy cowl, I could just see a bearded chin and a grimacing mouth, a mouth that I had once kissed, a mouth that had uttered so many endearments once upon a time.  
  
“You let her die…our precious daughter!”  
  
My eyes fogged with a sudden rush of tears. I also knew that voice, so full of malice, as well.  
  
“I had hoped,” he began jabbing the tip of his wand into my forehead painfully, “that she would be the one who could open the gateway. I knew  _you_  would never do it willingly.”  
  
My tears streamed from my widening eyes, but still, I was frozen to the spot. How long had he known about the Knights, about Merlin and Nimue, about me? How had he known? More importantly, why?  
  
“And now we are here, and  _you_  will open the gateway. Your dead lover has abandoned you like the coward he is.”  
  
I finally moved, my fists clenching, my eyes narrowing. Anger burned away the tears.  
  
“Oh, yes. I know about him. It took a great deal of effort to wring the truth from Slughorn. I confirmed it, taking a page from your book, luv. Torturing Goyle was particular joy.”  
  
I felt vomit rise up into my mouth, and I swallowed it. I would not allow him to see something so weak.  
  
“I would say it was a shock to learn that the greasy git had somehow survived, but then again, the bastard always seemed to eke out a life no matter how many times he should have died.”  
  
The wand tip jabbed into my forehead again as his demeanour shifted, and with his other hand, he pushed the cowl back for the first time.  
  
Ronald Weasley. If I ever had reason to truly hate him, the time was now. He studied my face with clear eyes, and then snatched my wand with Seeker like speed and tossed it toward the Tower. I moved my eyes to see the wand tumble end over end through the air, however, as it flew to fall into the archway, it burnt in a flash of blue. Vinewood ashes fell to the ground like dust on the wind.  
  
“Now, it is time to do your duty,” he growled, and suddenly I had my arm wrenched behind my back, the force of Ron’s hold making my shoulder crack and pop. With a steering push, the already tender joint, for a second time in perhaps two weeks, dislocated.  
  
I stumbled, but did not scream. He lifted me up to my feet again, growling like an animal, pushing me toward the archway. I whimpered as I stood just before the arch. Beyond, I could see the sun was beginning to set in the ‘real world,’ an orange glow upon the fields beyond the Tor. I wanted to scream to the young Muggle couple that walked by the adjacent passage, but I knew that no matter how loud I struggled and yelled, they would not hear.  
  
“Open it!”  
  
I wanted to reason with Ron, I always could in the past. Despite our many arguments through the years, I could always rationalize with Ron. He was not stupid, just stubborn. In fact, Ron was brilliant, but always lingering on the outside, playing the ‘odd man out’ far too many times. The Golden Trio had always been a cohesive unit, and far too many times both Harry and I had castigated Ron for placing himself intentionally on the outside.  
  
“Open it now!”  
  
Ron’s wand tip dug into the back of my neck, next to the braid of long thick hair running down my back and over the brown canvas bag and cloak I wore. When his hand released my left wrist to grasp my plait, I finally screamed. My arm fell limply to my side, my fingers numb.  
  
“Do it, Hermione…”  
  
“I don’t know how!” I screamed, cutting off the rancorous tenor of his voice.  
  
Ron jerked my head back to place it on his left shoulder, and in my ear, he hissed: “You do and you will. You are the key!”  
  
I still did not understand what it meant, being the key, but I could understand what it meant to be the keeper. If Ron killed me, if he tried to pass through the gateway without me, surely would destroy him as it destroyed my wand.   
  
“I would Imperio you, but I cannot risk the chance that as soon as you stepped through the arch you would survive…” he grumbled, more to himself than to me.  
  
My head was pushed forward, forcing my body to bend at the waist. I could feel the crackle of a magical ward just in the archway, but nothing happened except the ward brushed over my cheek, making all the little hairs on my body stand on end.  
  
Ron mumbled something and pushed me again, causing me to take a step forward. His hand wrapped my plait around his palm, and with another jab of his wand, we moved together.  
  
My boots slapped against the stone in the tower as darkness fell over me. I could not turn to look back behind me, past Ron or to the Tor. I knew, somewhere deep inside, that I was passing through the gateway to another realm.  
  
It was not pleasant experience, but it proved excruciating to Ron. I could smell blood, feel his body stiffen against mine. I took more halting steps forward, toward the other side of the Tower.  
  
The blue sky of the ‘real world’ was gone. All I could see was mist, impenetrable mist.  
  
When Ron pushed me through to the other side, I slipped and began to fall. I was standing in shallow water, my boots scrabbling to find purchase on slippery stones under the surface. Ron’s feet splashed into the water behind me, but he jerked on my braid to keep my body upright.  
  
“We’re here,” he whispered in awe.  
  
He released my hair, and moved to stand to my left, his wand lowering. I chanced a glance at his face, and began following his eyes. The mist over the water began to shift and part, as before us, something appeared. It was a punt, but there was no punter pushing the craft. It came to rest against the slope leading deeper into the water, only two yards from where we stood. The punt was obviously enchanted.  
  
“Come along,” Ron uttered before grasping my left arm and pulling me deeper into the water to the punt. I winced at the force upon my dislocated shoulder, but trudged deeper into the water which had a definite briny scent.  
  
Ron nearly tossed me into the bow of the punt, where I collapsed, rolling onto my right side, cradling my left arm. Ron bent down on the till, resting on his haunches to stare at me. His cloak was wet and hanged over the stern side huff. He held his wand in his fingers.  
  
With a gentle lurch, the punt set off into the mist, and Ron smirked.  
  
I sat up in the flat-bottomed bow, glaring back at Ron.  
  
“Why?” I rasped out, grasping my left arm. I did not have enough power to relocate the shoulder, and I was sure that Ron would not be so obliging.  
  
Ron grinned, but there was something dark about the expression, something strained.  
  
“Did you even suspect me until a few moments ago?”  
  
I did not answer as Ron sat down on the platform of the till.  
  
“You suspected Percy, and it was only natural to do so. Despite being my brother, he was always a slippery one.  
  
I used that to my advantage. Percy owed me. He owed us all after his behaviour during the War.”  
  
I swallowed down more vomit as Ron’s face twisted.  
  
“I was always on the outside of everything. With you and Harry, with you and me. You were such a frigid bitch, Hermione.”  
  
The mist had walled us off, and if it were not for the wake in the water, I would have doubted that the punt was moving at all.  
  
“But to answer your very general question: I did this because it was something to do.”  
  
I balked. Ron Weasley, my old friend and once fiancé, was not mad—he was pitiful.  
  
“You and your brains, Harry and his fame…what did I have? I was there, for the most part, the point that stabilized the triangle, part of the Trio. I was the poor boy who liked strategy, loved Quidditch, and collected Chocolate Frog cards.  
  
I may not have been bookworm, or a hero, but I knew more about power than either of you.”  
  
Ron’s voice had turned mocking, his eyes narrowing. For a moment, I thought that he might hex me or harm me by the way his wand moved from his fingers to his palm, the point bobbing in my direction.  
  
“Merlin, the greatest wizard the world had ever known, was imprisoned just as his true power began to manifest. A woman…a woman seduced him, brought him low.   
  
Did you know that I even was interesting in the tales, did you care?”  
  
He was near to shouting, his face flushing. I said nothing, but watched him carefully.  
  
“When Percy showed me the reports from your insignificant little office, I read the mentions. The Knights of Walpurgis, the Order of Merlin, Abraxas Malfoy, Arcturus Black—it was just what I had been waiting for.  
  
Oh, Percy tried to protect you, he loved you  _so_  much… You did not know that either, did you?”  
  
I finally had to look away from Ron.  
  
“But he would never betray me. No matter how much he loved you, I was still his brother. He was so desperate to earn the family’s approval. He would do anything. He was so pathetic, so weak, and I made use of him.”  
  
I hated him wholly.  
  
“I had him dissolve your office. I had already begun investigating Aberforth Dumbledore and Horace Slughorn. I used Percy’s men; I picked just the ones who would follow an order without question. I was always steps ahead of you, and for once, in all the time I have known you, Hermione, I felt good.”  
  
Ron shifted on the till to lean forward.  
  
“And then I found out that my fiancée, my sweet little Pansy, was part of your group. What a shock that was! Poor, stupid Pansy.”  
  
I ground my teeth.  
  
“Every time she used Pig to send a message, I read it first. But then, Pansy got wise. To her, you walked on water, you were the sun, and again, I was chucked aside because of you!”  
  
I lifted my chin and snarled. “’The jealous are possessed by a mad devil and dull spirit at the same time,’” I quoted disdainfully.  
  
Ron, surprisingly, laughed mirthlessly. “Fancy words, as always.”  
  
I bit my lip, and then said: “If you know so much, Ron, you know that is the duty of the Knights to destroy you.”  
  
“I know, but where  _are_  they? Aberforth Dumbledore is dead, Slughorn is dead, your Snape has left you, and everyone else is too busy trying to keep themselves from being arrested as traitors of the Ministry to help you now.”  
  
I narrowed my eyes. “Then I will do it myself,” I whispered.  
  
“Without a wand…no, you would not need a wand, would you?” Ron mocked. “You are the key and the keeper, the descendant of the one who imprisoned the greatest wizard…”  
  
“Enough!” I shouted. “Enough.”  
  
Ron clicked his tongue, and stood, shaking the punt. “Enough is right…”  
  
He was not looking at me any longer, but beyond me. I turned stiffly to look over the bow of the punt. The mist was shifting again, and before us, a great green hillock rose before us.  
  
Avalon.

 

 


	20. XX

**XX**  
  
The phrase ‘hallowed ground’ had always confused me, even as an adult. I supposed it had to do with religion, like priests consecrating water or relics or the earth. I never could figure out what the big ado was. I realised that there were places on the earth that had power, just as Hogwarts was a well of magical energy or Glastonbury Tor was a convergence of ley lines, these places were special. There were various bodily reactions to such places, but to me, I felt only a hum around me of ancient power and magic. It was like stepping into a room that you only knew from a dream, a sense of déjà vu sweeping over you. Alternatively, it was like returning home after years away. The feeling was fleeting and quickly forgotten.  
  
As Ronald Weasley pulled me from the punt as it stopped just short of dry land, the first thing I felt when my boots set upon the soil was fear. I did not know if Ron felt it as he jerked my numb left arm to force me to move, but the fear made it hard for me to walk.  
  
There was no path up the hill, and it was quite steep. I whimpered and whinged at the pain, like grinding shards of glass in my shoulder. I was nauseous and very tired, but still I moved as Ron picked a route up.  
  
I could smell the apples and the salty air, and it made me dizzy. I was walking in my dream.  
  
My heart screamed for Severus with every beat, anyone who might help me break the dullness that had settled over me. I was withdrawing into my mind due to the agony I felt in my body, and if I retreated too far, I would never return.  
  
I stumbled and fell many times only to have Ron swear at me and jerk me to my feet. It seemed like hours before we came to the top of the hill. I fell again, but for the first time, I was left alone.  
  
“No…no…” I mumbled, surprised that I had begun to vocalise my distress.  
  
I lay near a great stone monolith, a post and lintel stone structure reminiscent of Stonehenge. In fact, as my bleary eyes moved about the hill stop, a large stone circle ran along the perimeter. However, in the very centre was the thing I feared the most.  
  
The tree was otherworldly, enormous, and definitely wrought of magic. The trunk was perhaps eighty feet in circumference and stood as high was the tallest tower at Hogwarts. The sheer size alone was mortifying. The branches nearly reached the perimeter of the flattened hilltop and upon the leaf-loaded branches were perfect, glowing golden apples.  
  
Ron seemed to have forgotten about me as he began walking under the darkness of the branches toward the trunk of the tree. While I felt fearful awe, he felt dangerous wonderment.  
  
I considered running back down the hill to the punt and escaping, but as I lay on my stomach, my chin boring into the grass, I could only watch Ron. His eyes scanned the branches and the apples. I could see the greed.  
  
How did it come to this?  
  
I tried to lift myself up, and with a concerted effort, I managed to sit up, dragging my legs under my body. I had to pull myself together. I had to do something, but what that something was eluded me.   
  
Crawling toward the nearest upright stone, I leaned my right shoulder into cool rock. I had to somehow put the left shoulder back in place. My wide eyes moved to Ron again who was staring up through the limbs to an absent source of light.  
  
I had to lift my numb arm with my right hand, so the shoulder was perpendicular to the ground. I tried to sit up as straight as possible against the megalithic stone. I lifted my left forearm up so my numb fingers brushed against my upper arm. The strain forced a loud gasp, but I contained it behind tight lips. I began moving my arm, turning the shoulder with my elbow bent. Red haze blinded me, the pain worse than the last time I had dislocated the shoulder.   
  
A sickening jolt of bone colliding against bone nearly made me faint, but the shoulder was relocated after a series of three turns and twists of my arm. I was gasping for breath, sweating. I flexed the fingers of my left hand, and the tiny shocks of traumatized nerves burnt the numbness away. Without a wand, there was no way to Charm the discomfort away and begin to heal the strained muscle.  
  
I had to breathe through the lingering pain, taking even, steady breaths even though my internal organs seemed to jump and twitch involuntarily. The lack of control was infuriating.  
  
I rested against the stone for a long while, it seemed, as Ron’s wonderment continued. He was only halfway between me and the trunk of the tree. I could not imagine what he believed he saw or felt, but I was beginning to feel a heightened sense of danger.  
  
The sound of footfalls near to where I sat had me pressing my body tighter into the rock. I was not sure if the sound was real or not. The sound of distant lapping waves distorted the air and my perception. There was a whispering and dripping noise accompanying the footfalls, and then a faint shadow fell over me.  
  
My eyes were not focusing fast enough for kneeling before me was a blot of golden light. When my sight settled upon a face, I knew I must have fainted, blacked out and I was truly dreaming.  
  
“Hermione?” a soft voice asked, a hand reaching out to grasp my left shoulder.  
  
Immediately the pain was gone, replaced by a sharp clarity. My mother knelt before me, and standing near the front face of the monolith was the man I had prayed for—Severus.  
  
“Mummy?”  
  
The childish endearment came in a tiny voice, but soon I had launched myself forward. I wrapped my arms about the woman as her arms wrapped about me. I could smell apples in her curly chestnut coloured hair and feel the silky softness of her golden robes and skin.  
  
“There is not much time, Hermione. The intruder is distracted now, but not for long…”  
  
I pulled away to stare into my mother’s face. It was my mother and it was not. In her golden eyes, there were tears, and her voice was wracked with a combination of happiness and fear.  
  
“The intruder cannot see Severus, or me, but he will see the goal soon enough,” she continued, her tears trickling down her golden toned cheeks.  
  
She was ageless, beautiful. I stared wide-eyed at the mother of all my mothers, a woman who had lived for thousands of years on the hilltop, a lovely sentinel, trapped forever.   
  
Nimue.  
  
I then glanced to Severus who seemed to be soaking wet, water dripping from his lank hair and off his clothing. The wounds I had noticed were still open, but the blood had stopped. His broken nose had been set at some point, and bruises were rising upon his face. However, as he gazed down at me, his eyes blazed with an internal fire.   
  
“Stop him anyway you can…” she whispered, helping me to my feet. Her soft fingers skimmed over my arms to grasp my hands. “The intruder cannot touch the tree.”  
  
She then helped me out of the straps of my bag, pulling my cloak away.  
  
“I don’t…” I began, my pleading eyes moving to Severus. “My wand…”  
  
“You won’t need it,” Severus said finally, his voice barely containing his anxiety.  
  
“I cannot help you, either. If your father escapes, only then can I do anything to end this,” my mother whispered gravely.  
  
My father… It sounded so terrible and so wrong. I was just Hermione Jean Granger, a Muggle-born witch. There should not have been a secret or a plot surrounding my heritage.  
  
My mother stepped away from me to stand next to Severus.   
  
“Traditional magic is useless here,” Severus began, glancing to my mother. “Wands are merely twigs,” he sighed. “Weasley, so far, has not realized this, but do not assume that it makes him any more dangerous.”  
  
My mother nodded. “This a place of pure magic. The Morgens never needed wands to use their powers.”  
  
I licked my lips. Ron could still use magic, perhaps, in the meantime, however, he still had to believe that he could threaten me with his chestnut wand.  
  
“Deceive him, woo him, and destroy him.”  
  
Her voice had taken on an icy tone, all the warmth draining from her face. In her keen eyes, I could see much. I could see how she had imprisoned Merlin.  
  
“Now go, end this for the sake of us all!”  
  


* * *

  


  
My heart ached when I looked upon Ron Weasley. I had loved him so completely once upon a time. However, I realised that there were parts to him that I did not know existed.   
  
The miscarriage had forced all my attention in on myself. It had skewed my perspective. When I looked upon Ron during the days and weeks after the miscarriage, all I could see was his cool disappointment and his detachment. He had been the one to propose marriage, and he had been the one to withdraw it. I could not see his pain, and on that point, I had been the selfish one. I was too wrapped in my grief that I did not care if he existed at all. I did not blame him for anything; I put it all upon myself. That had been a fatal mistake.  
  
As I walked under the loaded branches, the golden apples gleaming with their own light, I did not think about anything except Ron. There was delight in his face, just as there was voracity. I tried to recall if I had ever seen him so lost in the beauty that was the tree, but I could not think of a moment all through the years we had been together. The subtle pinch of jealousy had always marked his face, even when he was happy.  
  
How could I have been so blind?  
  
I was nearly within arm’s reach before Ron realised I was so close. His wand lifted and pointed between my eyes. He did not cast, however, but started down his arm to my face, a sneer marring his features.  
  
I frowned, my fingers twitching, missing the weight of my wand.  
  
“What is this place?” he snarled, taking a step forward, to press the wand tip into the already rising bruised bump where he had jabbed me before.  
  
“You don’t know?” I asked softly, sure to keep my voice even, emotionless.  
  
“It is the Isle of Avalon, the Isle of Apples,” Ron mocked, his eyes moving to the apples hanging just above our heads. “But what is this tree? Is it Merlin’s prison?”  
  
I licked my lips. “Yes.”  
  
Ron jabbed my forehead again, causing my chin to lift. “Tell me everything.”  
  
I blinked even as a flash of darkness moved under the shadow of branches behind Ron.   
  
Severus.  
  
“You know the tales?”  
  
Ron nodded, his eyes narrowing. “Nimue imprisoned Merlin, in a tree, in this case. I thought it was supposed to be an oak tree.”  
  
I tried to shake my head, but the wand tip was burying too painfully into my skull.  
  
“A misconception,” I whispered.  
  
“And the apples?”  
  
I had to keep myself from licking my lips again, nervously.  
  
Deceive him, woo him, and destroy him, Nimue had said.  
  
Tales and myths spun through my brain, and then I spoke a lie.  
  
“The golden apples of the Hesperides, some call them—” I began, but Ron’s voice cut my words off.  
  
“Immortality?”  
  
I said nothing.   
  
“Power?”  
  
Silence.  
  
“Wisdom?”  
  
I took a breath and nodded, ignoring the bruising on my forehead. Ron’s face contorted into a smile, and then he laughed. Slowly, he lowered his wand from my face and gazed up at the nearest apple.  
  
“Wisdom enough to obtain the power within the tree,” he murmured to himself.  
  
Plucking a perfect apple from the branch, I shivered. The analogy of Eden struck me, and I hoped that Ron would be too greedy to realise what a lie I had spun.  
  
The golden skin of the apple transfixed him as he twisted it in his hand. His blue eyes were almost green by the light of the fruit, and slowly he brought the apple to his mouth. Ron sniffed the fruit first and then smiled. There was a childish delight in his face, one that I had seen many times—the delight of gluttony.  
  
I could not breathe as his mouth opened, his jaw moving to bite into the fruit. I was not sure what would happen, for all I knew was what had been said in my dreams. The fruit would make a man insane. Would insanity be a boon?  
  
The crunch of teeth tearing into the ripe flesh of the apple was deafening. The scent was overwhelming. Ron’s jaw moved, as he tasted, his eyes shutting.  
  
I took an instinctive step away, waiting. Ron made a noise, of pleasure, and swallowed. He took another bite, then another. My eyes scanned the shadows under the tree, I saw no one.  
  
Had I been wrong?  
  
“What have you done?”  
  
Ron’s voice brought my attention back to his face. His eyes gazed down his long, straight nose to me. The wand and the apple fell from his hands, and with a quick movement, he grabbed his middle, crumpling. The half-eaten apple rolled to rest against the toe of my boot, and inside I saw the white flesh inside, and the black seeds.   
  
“Lying…” was all Ron could manage before falling to his knees, his face twisting in pain. I took another step back as he reached for his dropped wand.  
  
“Crucio!” he gasped from his knees, his wand pointed at my face.  
  
Nothing happened. No matter how much bile and venom was in Ron’s voice, no magic came.  
  
The effort overtaxed Ron, it seemed, and even as he began to realise his wand was useless, he began to fall face first into the ground. The expression on his face was one of betrayal and soon it was obscured in the grass under my feet.  
  
“’She gave me of the tree, and I did eat…’” a voice said from behind me.  
  
Severus walked to my side, no longer dripping, but smelling heavily of seawater. He gazed down at Ron distastefully.  
  
“And so he did fall,” he whispered.  
  
“Is he dead?” I asked in a strangled voice.  
  
Severus moved to kneel next to Ron, his fingers wrapping about his throat. “No, death would be too good for the likes of him.”  
  
I swallowed and kicked the half eaten apple away from me.   
  
“Well, then, my devious Eve, you still have a task to perform.”  
  
Severus smiled. It was a sad smile, but a smile nonetheless, and in the shadow of the tree, he was handsome. He was the Severus in my dream. As he rose, I rushed to him, feeling weak and silly.  
  
He lifted me off my feet, embracing me, but the tender moment did not last long. Severus sat me on my feet as we faced the trunk of the great tree.  
  
There was a shift in the air, a cold blow of wind that rustled the branches and leaves over our heads. It was like the change of air pressure as a cold front rolled in, but it was more than that. There was magic on the wind, like ice, and I could feel it against my face and hands.  
  
Something was stirring, and I wondered if it had been because Ron had eaten the apple, or because we were so near to the trunk of the tree. The wind rose and the branches swayed and cracked, apples falling off to the ground.  
  
_“Fools…”_  
  
The voice came from the sound of the wind in the limbs, but I knew it was not just some inarticulate sound, it was distinct and malevolent.  
  
I began to run.  
  
I think I heard Severus call my name and felt his fingers grasping toward me, but I ran, not away, but toward the tree. Dread compelled me, and dread prepared me.  
  
The girth of the tree was impossible to understand, but I stood before it just as the bark cracked apart and seemed to move as if sentient. Golden light streamed from the crack which was high enough to allow a person to pass, but was still only a crack and not wide enough to let anyone slip out.  
  
Standing before the glowing crack, the mother of all my mothers stood, a lyre in her arms, her long curls floating upon an unfelt wind emanating from the tree. Despite the warm golden glow, the air was frigid.  
  
_“Fools…”_  the voice said again.  
  
Nimue began strumming the lyre, her fingers moving deftly over the six strings. The melody was slow, and familiar. I had heard it in my dreams.  
  
“The invocation for earth,” Nimue whispered and the melody shifted, as did the trunk of the tree.   
  
The crack shrank, the light pulling back into the wood. I glanced from Nimue to the tree, wondering if somehow the sound of the plucked strings were weaving a spell lost to the modern age.   
  
“The invocation of wa-“  
  
Nimue’s voice was cut short as the stings of the lyre snapped and suddenly she fell against me, the instrument crashing to the ground. I caught her in my arms even as hot blood splashed over my hands. I grunted at the weight of her, and gently, we both slid to the grass.  
  
_“Fools!”_  
  
I ground my teeth as the voice sounded stronger, closer than ever before. I glanced down to Nimue, whose golden eyes were wide with shock. My hands clasped over a gaping wound in her chest, staining the golden fabric of her robes.  
  
“No!” she rasped. “No time to worry about me!”  
  
I blinked. “But…”  
  
“I have lived for over a millennia, such a wound will not easily kill me…”  
  
A smooth hand pressed my own to the beating of her heart under her wound. Nimue smiled.   
  
“He will try to escape, he will try to frighten you, but hold fast. I cannot continue the invocation; I cannot seal the tree again. He has been waiting for a moment to try to leave the enchantments.  
  
You must…” Nimue trailed, her eyes widening as Severus appeared at her feet, his eyes revealing his shock.  
  
“You. The child of the chieftess, you  _must_  help!”  
  
Severus scowled, kneeling down, his useless wand dangling from his fingers. He dropped his oak wand into the grass and reached toward the wound. Nimue made a sound in her throat and shook her head.  
  
“One destroys a tree at the root,” Nimue whispered.  
  
I did not understand, but it seemed that Severus did. He whirled away, moving to the base of the tree, just right of the crack, and fell to his knees.  
  
I watched him, even as a bloody hand reached up to touch my cheek.  
  
“Severus knows what it is to be imprisoned,” the mother of all my mothers, whispered. “He knows how to invoke the power of earth and water, just as the mother of his mothers knew. As we all knew…”  
  
I bit my lower lip.  
  
“And you, my beautiful daughter, you have ‘his’ power.”  
  
I sighed shakily as Nimue’s bloody fingers moved to my lips.  
  
“You have his tenacity, something I so loved before it turned to obsession.”  
  
Nimue’s lips quivered, and she blinked slowly. A strange smile twisted her mouth, an expression that I knew as well as my own face.   
  
Sarcasm.  
  
“Killing one’s father was seen as a rite of passage in the days that I was able to walk the earth. So it shall be again, for the last time, so mote it be.”  
  
Severus called my name and it was little more than a whisper.  
  
“Go now and forever, my daughter. The time has come, the dream must end.”

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
Severus’ fist bore into the earth, fingers searching. Again and again, he buried his fist into black soil until his dirty fingers found a root. It was a small root, but in Severus’ hands, it wriggled like a flobberworm. The scent that accompanied the disturbance of earth was putrid. Combined with the scent of apples, it was the stench of rotting flesh.  
  
Severus pulled, his crooked teeth grinding together at the strength he exerted. His very touch seemed to make the roots unearth themselves under my feet and under Nimue’s prone form and Ron’s near petrified body in the distance.  
  
The invocation of the earth.  
  
The wriggling roots ranged from small to enormous, some as thick as my body. The tree, despite the sudden exposure of its roots, was stolid and unmoving. The voice from the tree had silenced, and I wondered if it was because it knew what was coming, or if it was in shock.  
  
Severus’ entire right arm disappeared into the ground, damp soil staining his pale arm blacker than the bruises he had borne. So many times Severus had dug into the earth during out journey that the black earth that stained the cracks of his hands and the space under his fingernails would surely never come clean any time soon.  
  
I stepped closer to Severus as his face sneered, unable to reach what he was searching for. The rumble under my feet alerted me to the shift of the roots still buried, the earth moving. Holes formed all about us, the earth sinking to replace the loss of the root, and I felt the grass under my own feet sink slightly.  
  
“There!” Severus hissed, his body rising up, his muddy arm pulling with every bit of his wiry strength.  
  
In his hand was the heart of the tree, the seed in which Nimue grew the prison for Merlin. It was a golden apple, petrified. It was cut in cross section and from the middle of the five seeds, forming an organic design that I had seen on all the markers leading along the labyrinth, was a thin golden thread of hair.  
  
Merlin’s hair.  
  
I opened my mouth to speak, to tell Severus to break the hair, but my throat was caught, a vice closing around my neck.  
  
_“Foolish girl!”_  
  
I choked, my hands flying to my neck, nails digging into living flesh. My eyes felt as if they were bulging as they swiveled about to see a pale arm sticking from the crack in the tree.  
  
It was like one of my dreams, only worse, only real.  
  
Severus’ voice rang out in shock, shouting my name, but it was so distant despite him being so near.  
  
_“You cannot kill what is immortal!”_  
  
I gagged and gasped, my mouth moving uselessly as the grip tightened.  
  
I was dying, again. The first time had led me to the very place I stood, but I doubted that the next realm would be so wonderful.   
  
I had a choice before me. Fight or die.  
  
If life was hard, dying was the easy part, I remembered someone saying to me once, but the voice and associated face eluded me.   
  
So, I fought.

 

 


	21. XXI

**XXI**  
  
Fire thrived in the abundance of oxygen, and the natural process of life that kept the great tree alive aided in the burn.   
  
I set myself on fire. It was just as it had been when I was a child; fire surrounded me, spewing like blood from my hands. I could feel flame in my nostrils and in my mouth. I could feel it in my bones and my muscle, and there was no pain.  
  
Through the scald of heat, I watched Severus fall away, gliding over the ground as a black kite caught on the back draft. I could see his hair singeing, his clothes turning to ash from the heat, as he gathered up Ron. Nimue was gone. Severus was gone, pressing himself behind one of the megalithic stones that comprised the ancient circle.  
  
Leaves and limbs caught like dry kindling, apples melting on the branch. The seed near my feet turned to ash, the hair curling and melting. The trunk was blackening and the golden light had darkened from within. The tree was dying.  
  
I pulled upon the untouched arm, the fingers slipping from my throat. There was only the sound of fire as I grasped the wrist, the hand searching. For a moment, I thought the fingers were grasping to injure me in some way, but as the arm shook free, the hand took my right hand into an embrace.  
  
There was pain and fear in the grip, but as fingers intertwined with mine in a gentle hold, I knew there was relief. It was an end of an age, perhaps. It was liberty as it was death.  
  
The fire engulfed the tree, and smoke blinded me. Soon, I could not see an inch before my face.  
  
And then, I was flying, pulled off my feet toward the charred wood, my cheek slamming into the blackened bark. I think I screamed as my arm disappeared into the crack of the tree, my fire blazing at my spike of shock. The force of the pull on my wrist was excruciating, and I knew then that the being inside wanted to pull me to my death. The inside of the trunk was like a furnace and I could feel flames moving along the inside, burning hotter than any of what was outside. White flame licked at my skin and the sleeve of my shirt, and the dragon hide and mesh melted away. This was the only burn I felt, scoring into my flesh and muscle, the skin blistering and bursting.  
  
_“There is always a cost to killing.”_  
  
My right hand burned where it was held. An object pressed into my palm, and a brand was pressed all the way into the bone.  
  
I screamed from the depths of my soul, an earsplitting scream that did not seem possible coming from a human being. However, as I screamed, I was released.  
  
I fell away from the tree, down, down, into the earth as the roots of the tree turned to ash, as did the apples and limbs. I held my right hand into my chest, fire whirling around me, cinders raining down upon me. I fell into the bowels of Avalon, until even my fire could not light the darkness. I was lost.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Ginny Potter was scowling at me when I voluntarily opened my eyes. She had been shining a lighted wand tip into my eyes when I raised a hand, my left hand, to swipe at the obtrusive sight.  
  
I blinked slowly as Ginny’s face turned from a scowl to a smile.  
  
“Welcome back,” she whispered, and then she was gone.  
  
I could not move, but I could stare at an unfamiliar ceiling with sculpted plaster friezes in some old Victorian design. I closed my eyes again, until the raucous clamour of voices drifted into earshot.  
  
Several faces appeared before my eyes. First was Harry, then, Fannie. Pansy was next, her tears seemingly a permanent feature to her face as I could recall. Lastly, Greg Goyle bent down, his lop sided grin filling my vision. Of all the faces, his looked the worst. Both of his eyes had been blackened at some point, his noise broken and bandaged, he was missing teeth as well. If I had not known who he was, his face would have frightened me.  
  
They all spoke to me, but I did not understand until much later what they were saying.  
  
The basics were: first, I was going to live, but no one elaborated on why I could not move or speak. Second, I was still a wanted woman. Third, Ron was at St. Mungo’s. Lastly, Severus was gone.  
  
Ginny soon shooed everyone away, and knocked me out with a potion.  
  
I did not dream.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
I learned that I was in Pansy Parkinson’s house in Cornwall, her parents ushered off to France for vacation following the aftermath of her cancelled nuptials to avoid the press. The Manor house was near the coast, and outside my window, I could hear the sea. The sound unnerved me.  
  
It seemed that most of the Knights of Walpurgis were in the Manor, even the portraits of Abraxas and Arcturus. The only one missing was the one I wanted the most.  
  
When I was able to talk, I told all of them what had happened, portraits brought in by unfamiliar elves and set in chairs facing the bed. The reactions ranged from silence to shouting. I ignored it all. Harry was the one to drive everyone from the room, to sit next to me on the over large bed.  
  
“Severus told us what happened. When he brought you back, he gave us his point of view.”  
  
“Where is he?” I asked, leaning back into the pillows Ginny had placed behind me. She was acting as my unofficial Healer, and declared that she would be returning to the Burrow later in the day, but return tomorrow. I was healing fine, but still Ginny wished to speak to me in private about my overall state of health. I was a bit unsettled by her words.  
  
Harry shrugged at my question. “He said he would be in contact soon. He mentioned something about arranging for some sort of protection for the both of you.”  
  
I frowned, and my face ached, the bruised bump on my forehead still giving me headaches.  
  
“I did not kill him…” I whispered.  
  
Harry smiled sadly. “No, you didn’t.”  
  
“How did he…?” I trailed.  
  
Again, Harry shrugged. “Severus did not say, but Ron was suddenly was in the lobby of St. Mungo’s screaming about the Muggle Bible. Neville took charge of him, and now Ron is in the Spell Damage ward. No one can find out what is wrong with him. They have him restrained…”  
  
I took a shaky breath. I had told Harry and the others about Ron eating the golden apple, but not of its side effects.  
  
“And Greg? How is he, really?”  
  
Harry sighed and crossed his arms before his chest. “I managed to find him at Hogwarts. He does not remember well, but he thinks that the so-called ‘New Order of Merlin’ held him somewhere in Hogsmeade. Goyle escaped with Pansy’s help and McGonagall protected them despite the Ministry trying to interfere. Gumboil and McClaggen wanted Goyle for questioning, but Goyle was so bad off…he…” Harry trailed.  
  
“The Ministry, does it know…?”  
  
“About Ron? I don’t know. I still have my job, but I am purposely being left out of the ‘loop.’”  
  
I huffed, only to wince.  
  
“The Ministry has been moving on the Tor. You realize that over two weeks have passed since then?”  
  
I did not.  
  
“The Prophet is filled with the photographs and names of the dead. Of course, Skeeter is having a hey-day, using you as a scapegoat. Spinnet, on the other hand, is saying that you are a hero and that another Dark uprising has been thwarted. Still, no one really knows why there were thirty or more dead ‘agents’ found on the Tor…”  
  
“Lavender?” I asked suddenly, remembering that when Ron forced me into the Tower that she had been alive…  
  
“Dead.”  
  
My face crumpled.  
  
“Severus killed her,” he said. “He said something like 'there can be no witnesses, none with the least bit of sanity left…'”   
  
“And Aberforth?”  
  
Harry bit his lip. “There was no body.”  
  
This puzzled me. If Severus said nothing about it to the others then… I sighed.  
  
“You are still wanted for murder, but no longer Percy’s. No matter what wrong the ‘New Order of Merlin’ did, you’re still a fugitive of justice.”  
  
This fact, surprisingly, did not bother me.  
  
“And so far, no one alive outside of those in the house and Arthur, knows of Severus.”  
  
My thoughts drifted to the Weasley family. With the loss of Fred, I had feared that any other would crush the family. The Weasleys were resilient, but there was always a limit.  
  
Harry continued talking to me about Ron, and I listened, inserting comments here and there. He spoke of how since the first time he had met Ron that there was always an element of jealousy to their friendship. I even remembered the various points during out school days that Ron would refuse to speak to Harry, claiming that Harry was actively seeking out danger to experience the glory.   
  
“Even you, to him you were a trophy. He resented me so much because of the time we spent searching for the Hallows.”  
  
I blushed slightly at the memory. There had been a time that Harry and I had been close, intimate even, but it was a product of stress and fear. Harry and I had remained friends. I never told Ron about those cold nights Harry and I shared, but I was sure Ron suspected much. It was history, though, and even as adults, Harry, and I would occasionally bring up our adolescent fumblings only to laugh.  
  
“’Vaticinium ex eventu,’ eh?”  
  
“What do you mean?” I asked. I knew the phrase, but…  
  
“Ron always had a ‘darker’ side to him. Maybe you couldn’t see it like I did, but then again, I never expected Ron to strategise so efficiently without us knowing.”  
  
Harry blinked at his own words and his expression turned apologetic. He did not have to speak. Ron and I had been estranged for six years.  
  
“But all this wanting to ‘recombine the Magical and the Muggle,’ that would never be a motive hatched from Ron Weasley’s brain…”  
  
I agreed. It sounded like some wild fantasy Arthur Weasley might have.  
  
“I suppose that we will have a long time to ponder his exact motive,” I murmured, turning my eyes to the window and the grey sea beyond.  
  
“And in the meantime, the Weasley’s are going to get a good lashing from the press. Percy not being dead, but pulling a ‘Pettigrew?’ And now with Ron being as he is…”  
  
I said nothing. It was unfortunate and unexpected. It made me question so many things I thought to be true, not to mention everything surrounding the Knights of Walpurgis.  
  
Harry and I sat in silence for a few moments before he inquired as to how I felt.  
  
“In shock, and sore,” I said with a slight smile.  
  
My right arm was wrapped from the tips of my fingers to my shoulder. Ginny had feared that I would lose my arm after the severity of the burns, but in true Healer style, she mended the arm to the best that Magical medicine could provide. Bone and muscle had to be reconstructed, new skin had to be grown and grafted. As for my hand, I had a blackened brand in my palm in the design of the five teardrop shaped apple seeds I had seen growing in the poison golden apples. I could not ponder the design or why it had been branded into my skin and bone. I had little movement in my fingers, and I would never regain any use of them unless Magical medicine was to somehow leap forward in my lifetime.  
  
Other than my arm, I had minor injuries. The stress and strain of my muscles pained me as much as my arm. The bruises and cuts were almost healed; only the bruise on my forehead did not heal fast enough to suit me.  
  
Harry informed me that Severus had only minor injuries, very minor compared to mine.   
  
“How did I come to be here?” I asked finally.  
  
Harry smirked. “Severus sent a Patronus from Glastonbury to me.”  
  
The doe, I was sure that the second sighting of it thrilled Harry. However, Harry then told me that it was not a doe, but an Ashwinder. Again, the symbolism escaped me until I could find a more peaceful time to ponder matters. I did know that Patronus forms could change. Tonks’ had changed. I had not thought about her for a while, and I frowned.  
  
Time had flown away from me.  
  
“We considered bringing you to Grimmauld Place, but since I was suspended, the M of M has been watching the house. Just to keep things normal, I suppose to say, Ginny brought the boys back from the Burrow.  
  
Severus’ Patronus frightened Albus as we sat down to dinner, and the voice that came from the Ashwinder made Jamie scream; to top it off, Ginny started having contractions. It was a mess, but the message was relayed.”  
  
I rolled my eyes as Harry began to chuckle. It was nice to hear a bit of laughter after so much that had happened.  
  
“I met Severus at some inn, and from there, we brought you to Cornwall.”  
  
That seemed to be the end of Harry’s tale, and soon he made his excuses to go, anxious to get home. I was left alone again in a white bedroom in Parkinson’s Cornish Manor.  
  
I found, when I managed to wriggle under the blankets to sit on the edge of the bed, that I had recovered a great deal of strength during my convalescence. No one had forbid me to get out of bed, and even as I rose, the pain was not enough to keep me from moving.  
  
I had had enough of enchanted bedpans and sponge baths. I was wearing a simple night shift with thin straps that allowed access to my bandages. However, as I located the en suite lavatory, I realised that I had no wand. The Vinewood wand, the one I had recovered after the War, the one that was much part of me as my charred limb, was gone forever. As I was a ‘fugitive,’ procuring a new wand would be difficult.  
  
I wanted a proper bath, and short of Charming my bandages waterproof, which I could not, I could not let my arm get the least bit damp with a bath. I settled for using the lavatory and using a flannel to wipe what I could from the sink. The process was time consuming. I kept bumping my wrapped hand against the edge of the sink, having to breathe through the pain before I could move to wash again.  
  
It was as I had propped a foot up on the edge of the claw footed bath tub to lift the hem of my night dress up to wash my legs that the bedroom door opened. I dropped the flannel and muttered a curse. Perhaps one of Pansy’s many new guests had come to speak to me, or Pansy had come herself to fawn over me like a child.  
  
I think I preferred Pansy Parkinson when she hated me.  
  
I bent slowly to grasp the damp flannel with my fingertips. The unnatural angle made me groan, my muscles stiff and sore.  
  
The sound of a soft chuckle made me drop the cloth again. My foot slipped off the edge of the tub and with some unusual ballet move, I managed to keep myself from falling head long in the tub, but sat down hard on the edge.  
  
“What’s so damn funny?” I snarled even before I realised who was leaning in the doorway.  
  
Severus’ brow shot up in mock offence, his arms crossed before his chest, his shoulder leaning into the doorjamb.  
  
“Parkinson does have elves, or are you adverse to them still?”  
  
I blinked. How had he remembered that?  
  
As if to answer my mental question, Severus sighed. “The mystical power of Avalon seemed to place the lost pieces of my memory back in my eviscerated brain,” he drawled sarcastically. “I remember Hermione Granger, and the many rules she broke. I remember her hand shooting up in the air and blurting out the correct answers even before I could acknowledge you—and most times, I did not. I remember docking House points, and I remember my favourite epithet for you. Insufferable little know-it-all…”  
  
His voice trailed as his eyes moved to my bandaged arm and then to my face. I took a tremulous breath. I had wanted him to forget those things.  
  
“Of course, thirteen years have changed you much, while I…”  
  
“What else do you remember?”  
  
Severus seemed happy at the redirection. “Not much. Whatever I lost when I nearly died is gone forever, much to Potter’s chagrin. It seems he had hoped I would tell him more about his mother.”  
  
I lowered my eyes to my bare toes on the white tile.  
  
“I remember Lily Potter as an insignificant face, James Potter’s plain wife…”  
  
I smirked. I would not comment upon Lily-cursed-Evans-Potter. I had come to dislike her immensely even though she had been dead for over twenty-five years. In fact, I conceded that I was slightly jealous, but dislike won out.  
  
“I passed her son on the way out, giving him a bit of a shock, and he told me that besides the arm, you’re feeling much better?”  
  
I nodded. “I miss my wand,” I muttered pathetically. I then proceeded to tell Severus about my wish to bathe, wear something better than a nightgown, and perhaps eat something more than gruel.  
  
“I will see what I can do,” he said softly.  
  
By some twist of fate, Severus was the one to help me settle down into a hot bath, my bandages properly Charmed. He helped me wash my hair, kneeling next to the tub. He had rolled up the sleeves of his black jumper as he cupped water into his large hands to rinse away suds from my eyes.  
  
Severus spoke to me while I washed my front. Wiping at my breasts, I found them tender, just as the rest of me. I passed the flannel to him to wash my back. Severus’ eyes narrowed slightly, but he took the flannel without a word and began washing. I added the overall experience to my growing list of ‘surreal moments in the life of Hermione Granger.’  
  
He told me about his ordeal before finding me resting against the monolith on the isle. He told me that he had watched Ron push me through the gateway, and that he had followed. However, there was no punt waiting for him on the other side. He had flown by the unnatural ability he had learned, only to fall in the Poison Sea just in sight of the isle. He had to tread water the rest of the way.  
  
For some reason, I found Severus’ ordeal humourous, but did not laugh at the irritation of the memory on his face. As I looked at his face, he seemed different, the colour of his skin healthier, as if he had gotten some sun, somehow.  
  
“I’m sure Potter mentioned that I was making arrangements?”  
  
I nodded, using my left hand to wipe a few suds from my nose. “Although I would like to know what these arrangements entail.”  
  
Severus smirked. “A safe house, a new identity, and a new wand,” he murmured, dipping the soapy flannel in the bathwater to rinse my back. I knew that the fading bruises bothered him by the way his dark eyes narrowed. He managed to overlook my wrapped arm all together.  
  
“And pray tell, where?”  
  
Severus quirked his lips into a type of scowl.  
  
“Despite what you may think of me, I do listen to what you say, even when you are whinging,” he answered cryptically.  


 

 


	22. XXII

**XXII**  
  
Severus did not sleep next to me that night, though he stayed in the Manor along the seashore. It took me hours to finally fall asleep. After so many weeks, I had begun to grow accustomed to sleeping next to the pale, acerbic man. I missed his soft snoring, and the way he would wrap himself around me while we slept.   
  
When I woke, however, Severus was watching over me, sitting in a chair next to the bed. I had no idea how long he had been watching me, but his eyes were distant, somewhere else than staring at the bloody bandages wrapped about my arm. Sometime during the night, my arm began to ooze blood, especially my hand.  
  
He muttered that Ginny was waiting to speak to me, and quickly extracted himself from the chair. The brooding Severus had returned in full colours. He wore something very similar to his Hogwarts teaching robes, and even the way he stalked from the room reminded me of how he moved when walking down the corridors of the castle. His mood was in no way pleasant.  
  
Ginny came moments later, visibly rebuffed, and I knew that Severus must have exuded his displeasure into the rest of the Parkinson Manor which I had yet to see the rest of after being cooped up in a bedroom for nearly three weeks.  
  
Ginny was enormous, to put it bluntly, and when I had seen her before, I had been in too much pain to notice. Before I could enquire about her pregnancy, Ginny had already passed me two phials of potion, her face stony.  
  
I drank down both, sitting up in bed, trying my best not to pull a face.  
  
“Vitamins,” Ginny supplied, as she manoeuvred herself down into the chair Severus had recently vacated. She drew her wand from the pocket on the front of her maternity smock and over her shoulder she cast—imperturbable and silencing spells.  
  
“Before I even start to attend to those nasty bandages, I have a few questions for you, Hermione Granger.”  
  
Ginny Potter had inherited her mother’s tone for rebuke, and I wondered what grave sin I had committed besides having a hand in making her older brother insane. I then blanched at my derisive mental behaviour. I attributed it to some twisted coping mechanism. I would eventually crumble and have a good cry, but as it was…  
  
“When was the last time you had intercourse with Snape?”  
  
Ginny’s tone was heavy with matronly castigation, and I opened my mouth, letting it flap uselessly as a blush burnt into my cheeks like new bruises.  
  
“When was your last menses?”  
  
“For Mer-godssake, Ginny!” I screeched.  
  
Ginny’s eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms over her swollen breasts, resting her elbows on the top of her belly.  
  
“I’m asking as your Healer and not your friend, Hermione.”  
  
I closed my mouth with a snap. “Why?”  
  
Ginny’s cheeks trembled, again like Molly’s, and I knew…  
  
“You are pregnant. It’s very early, but as far as I can tell…”  
  
I threw the covers back from the bed and moved to sit just before Ginny, my nightgown twisted about my waist.  
  
“That’s impossible…” I hissed.  
  
Ginny’s face softened. “Apparently not. I ran the tests before you woke. I ran and reran them. Whatever damage you had in your womb after the miscarriage is gone. You are fertile, and you are pregnant.”  
  
I blinked and gaped at the same time, but my hands, uninjured and injured moved to my lower belly.  
  
“I have not mentioned it to anyone, yet. Seeing to your injuries was more important when Harry and Snape brought you here. But you are on the mend, and now it is time to consider your options.”  
  
Again, my jaw snapped with a click. “Options? Is something…”  
  
Ginny shook her head. “You haven’t been listening.” Ginny uncrossed her arms and shifted in her chair to lean forward as far as she could, her face only inches from mine. “You are pregnant. Snape is the father. You are a fugitive. You cannot stay in Britain,” Ginny uttered to me as if I were two years old.  
  
She leaned back and rested her hands on her belly. “It is too early to tell how exactly far along you are. As I said, I estimate about six to seven weeks…”  
  
Stoke-sub-Hamdon. I slouched forward and sighed. So much time had passed so quickly, but how? Had time been different across the Poison Sea?  
  
“You and Snape left London two months ago, didn’t you realize it?”  
  
Again, another person asking me if I realized that so much time had passed. Of course, I had not!  
  
“I stopped the pain reducing potions as soon as I detected the foetal heartbeat…” Ginny continued. “Are you feeling any soreness in your breasts or any sort of morning sickness?”  
  
I smirked. “I am sore all over, Gin, and I have yet to get up this morning to see how I feel.”  
  
Ginny sighed. “I know how unbelievable that might seem to you, Hermione, but…”  
  
I raised my eyes to Ginny, affronted. “But what?”  
  
“The options I started to mention…”  
  
I felt my face twist angrily. “Abortion? What, Ginny?”  
  
Ginny’s face paled and she turned her blue eyes away from my face. “No, not an abortion. I know what this means to you… It’s just… It’s Snape.”  
  
I laughed.  
  
Did Ginny’s dislike for Snape extend so far beyond the War? Of all people, I had believed that Ginny had somehow forgiven the petty grudges we all had in school.  
  
Then I realised. The child was not Ron’s. The child would not be part Weasley as my lost child had been.  
  
“I will have to discuss it with Severus,” I whispered. “But not until I can see the results of the tests myself. I have to know, Gin, that this is not some cruel cosmic joke.”  
  
Ginny nodded, sniffing. “I just don’t want you hurt again, Hermione,” Ginny said finally rising from her chair carefully to tend to my right arm. “After everything we all have been through…”  
  
I nodded as Ginny drew her wand again to Vanish the bandages about my arm. The sensation was unpleasant, but I said nothing. Ginny was distracted, her eyes bleary. I, on the other hand, was trying to comprehend her words after everything I had said.  
  
I was pregnant and no amount of logic was going to make me understand. I could only believe.  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Two days later, I was able to leave my borrowed room, nearly getting lost down odd winding corridors. It seemed that I was in a labyrinth once again. The Parkinson Manor was a mish-mash of rooms and corridors, and I wondered which insane relative had designed the house.  
  
Finally, Pansy found me staring into a circular room with marble walls and a large floor to ceiling window overlooking a cliff and the violent sea below. A fainting couch of blue velvet rested in the very centre of the room and I was puzzled as to the function of the room.  
  
Pansy took my uninjured hand and led me back to a staircase leading down into the main part of the Manor, twittering all the while, about how happy she was that I was on my feet. She led me into a luxurious sitting room where all the surviving Knights were assembled. Severus was sitting in a leather armchair near the fire, a glass of brandy poised between his palms, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair.  
  
I had seen Severus when I woke that morning, and upon my recognition of him sitting in the chair next to my bed, he seemed to flee. I was quite put out with him as Pansy helped me to sit next to Greg, who looked much improved from when I first laid eyes upon him after being unconscious for an unknown amount of time.  
  
Upon the wall above the fireplace were Arcturus and Abraxas. Harry was leaning into the sideboard to my left, Fannie next to Greg on the sofa. Pansy took her place in an armchair across from Severus. We were all assembled, and we all looked at each other in silence.  
  
Harry was the first to speak, pushing off the sideboard, moving to stand behind Pansy.  
  
“We have discussed a matter and agreed, Hermione. You should give the memories of the altercation on the Tor and the Isle to me for safe keeping.”  
  
I glanced to Severus whose dark eyes were fixed on the amber liquid in the glass before his face. Noticing where my eyes had settled, Harry continued.  
  
“Severus has given his memories of that time, and in order to eventually clear your name, you will need to give yours as well.”  
  
I sighed. “You realise that Severus’ memories would mean outing his identity to the Ministry?”  
  
“A risk I am willing to take,” Severus grumbled.  
  
“In time the Ministry will be able to manage…” Harry started, but interrupted.  
  
“If we run, the statute will run out after some time—“  
  
“No!” Severus growled, grasping his brandy in one hand and setting it upon the wide arm of the chair. “This needs to be resolved sooner than later, Hermione.”  
  
I inhaled deeply, glancing to Fannie and Greg who sat silently, staring into the fire. Then I glanced to Pansy who gave me a sympathetic look.  
  
“In time the Ministry will be reorganised in the wake of this…this…disaster,” Harry stuttered, trying to find the correct title for the madness that had swept us all up and left us sore and hurting. “When the time is right, we can submit the memories, along with the proper legal documentation.”  
  
I snorted. “Damn bureaucracy,” I muttered.  
  
Greg made a noise between a chuckle and a snort, and it set me off. I began laughing, slapping a hand over my mouth. Surely, everyone in the room believed I was finally cracking up, but I could not help myself. Perhaps I was cracking up, but soon my laughter faded and the seriousness of Harry’s words settled in.  
  
“Do it then. Take them,” I whispered with tears in my eyes.  
  
Laughter turned to tears, and as Severus watched Harry prepare to take my memories, there was sadness in those onyx depths that cut me to the core.  
  
The extraction of memories did not always erase the memory from one’s brain, but it did leave a grey filler, a blur. The clarity I had had was gone, and only an afterimage of what had transpired on the Tor and on Avalon remained. With the extraction, the clamping pain I had felt around my heart eased.   
  
I was left slightly stunned in the sense that I was not fully aware of what was happening around me after the last silver strand of memory was bottled and slipped into Harry’s pocket. I vaguely remembered Greg speaking to me, and patting my uninjured shoulder as he departed. I remembered Fannie taking down the portraits and the voices of Abraxas and Arcturus protesting at their rough treatment. I remembered Fannie saying that the Knights of Walpurgis, thanks to me, were no longer needed.  
  
Harry kissed my forehead, and was gone. Even Pansy, who was playing the gracious host departed from the room until I sat on the sofa alone with Severus staring into the fire.  
  
Something important had ended, and when I was finally fully aware of my setting and company, there was nothing I could do to bring the Knights of Walpurgis back together. There were so many unanswered questions, so many things I wanted to know.  
  
“We will leave tonight, after you have some more rest.”  
  
Severus’ voice was dull, almost disinterested.  
  
I said nothing, but stared into the side of his face to the shadow of a beard sprouting along his jaw.  
  
“All the arrangements have been made,” he continued before lifting his brandy to his lips and drinking deeply.  
  
Silence was heavy in the sitting room and even the crackle of the fire did not seem to penetrate the stillness.  
  
“Has Potter never taught his silly wife to shield her mind?”   
  
I straightened. “What do you…”  
  
Severus lifted himself from his chair to move to the sideboard. “I know.”  
  
I watched him slosh more brandy into his glass, and I wondered how much he had had already so early in the day.  
  
“Of course, Ginny Potter has a bad habit of revealing her every thought on her face,” he muttered, his back to me. He was wearing the same familiar doublet I knew from school, only the potion-scented robes were missing.  
  
“My question to you, however, is this: how long did you know?”  
  
I lifted my chin in reaction to Severus’ accusing tone. He had yet to turn back to me, and was tipping the glass back to drink quickly.  
  
“I did not know until Ginny told me two days ago,” I stated. “If I had known, do you think I would—“  
  
“You would,” he snarled, slamming the now empty glass into the surface of the sideboard, whirling upon me, his coal black eyes glowing. “You did!”  
  
I ground my teeth. “I am just as…no…” I trailed, suddenly losing my fire. I had two days to think about the impossibility of it all, Severus had just as long, perhaps.  
  
“I did not lie to you when I told you that I could not have children, Severus,” I whispered my chin falling to my chest, my hair falling about my face. “I have no explanations.”  
  
Severus made a noise that sounded very much like a snort, and, like a sparking inferno, my anger returned. I turned my face to him, and I could feel the fire in my body moving to my eyes.  
  
“Don’t misunderstand me, Severus. If your behaviour is any indication, you can go to hell… I am not giving up another child!”  
  
I was on my feet before I realised it, and all around me was the crackle of raw magic, a sparking prelude to flame. The pain in my hand stopped me from letting this manifestation of power go out of control, but I knew that it was not simply my magic alone.  
  
My womb seemed to hum, and for the first time, I was aware of the life inside, desperate to live.  
  
Severus’ reaction was one of fear, his eyes wide, and his hand slipping slowly to his wand in the front trouser pocket. I could see clearly that he did not understand. How could he? My uninjured hand moved to my lower belly, and I took a step back. I had lost so much, and Severus’ loss of years or memories were nothing in comparison.  
  
He opened his mouth to speak, but apparently finding his intended words insufficient closed his mouth again. Instead, he decided to do the one thing I found he did best. He left me alone.  


* * *

  
  
  
  
I returned to my room, ignoring Pansy’s questions as I left the sitting room. As soon as I reached my room, I ran to the bathroom, vomiting into the flush toilet. One thing I had not missed about pregnancy was morning sickness. Before, my morning sickness had been light, but as I retched and spat into the bowl of the toilet, I had a feeling that I did not know what morning sickness truly was…  
  
When my stomach had stopped lurching, I used a clean flannel wet with cold water to press the delicious coolness into the back of my neck and into my forehead. I sat on the edge of the bathtub, rubbing circles into my belly.  
  
By afternoon, elves brought food, and apparently sensing my queasiness, brought simple foods. I ate ravenously.  
  
At sunset, I was staring out the bedroom window to the stretch of open grey sea. Pansy had stopped by to check on me, asking if I wanted tea. I had refused. Pansy seemed slightly annoyed, but sad. Her last words to be had been in parting. I assumed that it was common knowledge that Severus intended to whisk me off to destinations unknown. To some silly chit, I supposed the idea sounded romantic or exciting.  
  
“I will not go without you,” a voice sounded in the space from the window and the door.  
  
I suddenly hated how Severus Snape seemed to know what was on my mind without using Legilimency. I was a superb Occlumens, after all.  
  
I turned from the window to find Severus standing before the door, dressed to travel, another cloak over his arm, for me.  
  
“You…” I started, but could not think of what to say.  
  
Severus strode across the room to stop just before, passing me the cloak. I did not take it.  
  
“If you think that this is some ploy…” I started again.  
  
“You were never capable of a ‘ploy,’ Miss Granger,” he purred.  
  
I shivered, the fingers of my right hand twitching uncomfortably.  
  
“This is a mistake,” I whispered, my eyes falling to the proffered cloak. “All of this…”  
  
Severus seemed stung by my words and the outstretched arm pulled back. I had used words against him. I could not look at him, I was too afraid of what I might see.  
  
An uncomfortable silent dragged on and on, until the cloak was offered to me again.  
  
“Do you love the child in your womb?”  
  
The question startled me, but I nodded. The answer should have been obvious, rhetorical.  
  
“Then I have no right to ask you to be rid of the child, do I?”  
  
Our eyes met in the falling darkness in the room. His eyes were as hard as stone, but his voice was unusually soft.  
  
“I will not go without you, and if I have to kneel beside you to await the Kiss, I would.”  
  
No. I would never let that happen. We were not criminals. We were caught in an impossible situation with no other choice than to kill.  
  
“Do you love me?”  
  
I fell back against the windowsill, but my eyes never left his.  
  
“I… I want to try,” I whispered. My voice was rough, but it was true.   
  
Severus remained expressionless.  
  
“Then you must come with me.”  
  
He had not said that he loved me, not in so many words, but I supposed that was typical Snape. Severus Snape was never a man to openly express his emotions often. He demonstrated them.  
  
I took the cloak from his arm and he helped me settle the heavy fabric upon my shoulders, lifting the cowl over my wild curls and waves.  
  
“Do you trust me?” he asked.  
  
I did, and I demonstrated it with a kiss.  
  
  
  
  
**_End Part Three_**  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**_Epilogue_** _  
  
Pax maternum, ergo pax familiarum_  
  
  
  
  
“Helena get your brother out of the lòi before he tries to eat the taro leaves!”  
  
I was lying in the hammock on the porch, fanning myself with the day’s copy of the Kauai Garden Island News. The sound of Helena threatening to curse her brother made me smile, as she was using a thin bamboo stick as a wand.  
  
I heard Hadrian squeal from somewhere in the small paddy, and then begin crying following a muddy splash. I sat up in the hammock, ready to move, but already Severus had straightened at the far end of the field. Mud coated his chin and forehead, and on his lips was a scowl.  
  
He sloshed between the rows of taro to where Hadrian fell, and lifted the four year old out of the water, dripping mud. I sighed, tossing the newspaper into the hammock as I rose. I walked barefoot across the small lawn to the taro field. Severus set the boy on the grass where I bent down to survey for any lasting damage. Besides a mouthful of dirty water and soiled clothes, the boy was fine.  
  
“No more playing in the mud,” Severus growled, only succeeding in making Hadrian cry harder.  
  
I ran my the stiff fingers of my right hand along the boy’s brow to push away the long muddy curls that usually were as black as Severus’ hair, but were a dull brown after falling face first in the lòi.   
  
“The same goes for you, young lady,” Severus snapped, annoyed.  
  
Helena, who had moved to stand by my side, straightened, the small bamboo stick falling from her fingers. I sighed, helping Hadrian to his bare feet and leading him to the bottom step of the porch, telling him to wait.  
  
“Mummy is going to do magic, Haddie, just watch,” I heard Helena whisper as I padded across the wide front porch to snatch my wand up from a low table next to the hammock. The wand hummed in my ruined right hand, and I switched it to my left. I sat down on the step, wand at the ready. Hadrian’s dark eyes widened as I began vocalising the incantations for the Charms to remove the mud from his clothes—a pair of red shorts and a tiny white tee shirt advertising the local surf shop. I used a different Charm to cleanse his skin and hair.  
  
“It tickles!” Hadrian squealed in delight, as suddenly he was clean. Of course, I would have to bathe him later, but for the time being, he looked more like a little boy than some muddy monster born of the lòi.  
  
“Off with you both. No more playing in the mud and no more making your papa a grouch,” I warned, slipping my wand into the front pocket of my cargo shorts.  
  
The children, four and six, took off across the lawn, Helena snatching up her pretend bamboo wand as they ran. I watched them circle around the garden fields planted with taro and pineapples and then disappeared around the small shed we used to grow more eclectic herbs not suited to tropical weather. The dense jungle behind the house proved to be a child’s dream. There was nothing that would hurt them, the area magically secured, and I had no fears of the children getting into any trouble. It was lòi that proved to be a trouble magnet to Hadrian, or ‘Haddie’ as Helena called him. There were many times the boy would play in the lòi, or in the ̀auwai, perpetuating his usual muddy state. Hadrian loved water while Helena took after her father with an affinity for the earth and the myriad plants and trees that grew around the house.  
  
This was to be my ‘happily ever after,’ but I knew there was no such thing. I settled back into my hammock, digging under me for the folded newspaper. I fanned myself as Severus tossed more and more huli outside of the paddy, tossing the harvested corm into another pile. I watched him rub his sweaty forehead with the back of his arm, swiping more mud onto his face.  
  
We were the Princes, a transplant family from origins unknown. We were a magical family as were many on the island of Kauai, Hawaii. We had lovely neighbors, most of them native to the island, and we lived in simplistic peace. No one asked questions, no one pried, and no one thought anything about my strange accent or my golden eyes. After six years, even Severus ‘Prince,’ did not look like some pale wraith from another island far away. The sun had made his skin brown, work had filled out what bit of leanness he had, and with his cropped black hair and dark eyes, he belonged more to Kauai than I did. There was an ageless quality to Severus, now that he had colour to his skin and true bulk to his frame.  
  
Ipo-lani Robinson, the nearest neighbor, and the closest thing I had to a female friend on the island, commented often at how Severus seemed to have been born of the island. His eyes were like the volcanic glass the children would find around the beaches. Ipo-lani and her husband Makoa had three boys that often played with Helena and Hadrian, but all were older and gone to school at Ilvermorny until the end of August. Until Christmas hols, Helena and Haddie only had each other.  
  
Severus stepped out of the lòi and sat down in the grass, dropping his harvesting scythe, wiping his hands into the grass. I rose again, knowing that he was done for the day. He had cleared half the field, and the next day, he would finish. Between scolding Haddie and gruffly asking Helena to stop pretending to hex her brother, Severus’ pace had been hampered.  
  
I slipped through the screen door into the small one story house set into the hillside, and quickly prepared a glass of iced tea. I could hear the children behind the house and in the jungle through the open windows, and I smiled. They were playing some sort of game Pali Robinson, the youngest Robinson son, had taught them.  
  
I padded from the house, the sweating glass in my left hand, my right hand curled in the pocket of my olive green cargoes. The sun beat down on my bare shoulders, the faint tan line around my tank top had faded. I was as golden brown as Severus, my hair also cropped to sway in wavy golden tendrils about my cheeks.  
  
Sitting next to Severus, I passed him the glass, my toes digging into the grass around the lòi. Severus muttered a word of thanks and drank, his held tilting back, sweat trickling down his throat and over his bare chest. I glanced to the collection of taro corms and then to the huli. This harvest was proving to be good enough to sell. Of course, we had no real need for Muggle money, but it was nice to have all the same.  
  
“Do you think we put a ward with a shocking hex, Haddie will stay out of the lòi?” Severus grunted after draining his glass.  
  
I feigned horror and then laughed. “I think that might constitute child abuse.”  
  
Severus grumbled. He was tired, and when he was tired, he was cranky. “The boy has trampled a good portion of the other field, and just after I replanted it…”  
  
“We’ll have to speak to him about that. I still say that if you were to dig a hole and fill it with water somewhere off the side of the house, Haddie would be content with his personal wallow to not bother the taro.”  
  
Severus smirked, setting the empty glass between us. His legs were muddy, his bare feet beginning to dry with caked soil. He was definitely a sight dressed in a pair of cutoff jeans Ipo-lani had donated after Makoa gained weight the year before.  
  
The scars on his back were still silvery, but not so obvious under a deep tan. In fact, the Severus Snape I remembered from the night he appeared in Grimmauld Place was a shadow compared to the man who sat next to me.  
  
“Mind a walk to the beach later?” I asked, pulling my near rigor-wasted hand from my pocket to rest my arms on the tops of my knees. “Ipo-lani will take the children. She promised to let the children watch the telly…”  
  
Severus scoffed. “For such a powerful family descended of chiefs, to have a Muggle television in the house seems so…”  
  
I chuckled. The Robinsons  _were_  formidable kahuna. However, they had integrated in between the Muggle and the Magical seamlessly. The Robinson boys had gone to the public schools on the island until the age of nine, and then were recruited to go to the mainland to the American Wizarding academy of Ilvermorny. Helena would go in three years. Ilvermorny had a lower age restriction for the exceptional as Helena was proving to be, and as far as I knew, a more well-rounded curriculum.   
  
“Ipo-lani will meet us in about an hour,” I continued.   
  
Severus said nothing, but scowled to the half harvested lòi. With my hand, I could do little with growing taro, but cared for the special herbs in the shed instead. I kept the house and taught the children with Severus’ help, and besides perfecting the ability to write my stories about a boy named Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort with my left hand, I was a perfect Mrs. Prince.  
  
Such was our life.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
News from Britain came regularly via Manu, the barn owl we kept. News about the Ministry came from Harry; news outside of the Ministry came from Pansy. After six years, I was still wanted for the murder of thirty Ministry agents. The Ministry was in chaos after the arrest of several high-ranking officials in connection to the ‘New Order of Merlin,’ yet I was still wanted. Shacklebolt took Hopkirk’s position as Minister once again, and only in the last two years was the truth of the dark plot propagated by Ron Weasley and others brought to light.  
  
Pansy informed us that Ron’s condition had turned from the violent to the catatonic. The public consensus of my supposed guilt was disinterest. No one was actively seeking me. However, there had been rumours of Severus Snape being alive, apparently seen stalking after a woman in Diagon Alley just before I supposedly murdered Percy Weasley in Islington. Severus only chuckled.  
  
“Rumours are rumours,” he muttered.  
  
News after six years began to lean more to the personal. Ginny had had an easy delivery not long after Severus and I settled on Kauai. Harry even sent pictures of little Lily; the most recent was stuck on the front of the kitchen cabinet. Lily at nearly seven… Helena looked upon Lily as a sister she wished she had. Haddie had little interest in Helena’s girlish games of ‘save the princess from the dragon,’ or ‘queen of the jungle.’  
  
Pansy had married only the year before. Pansy Parkinson kept her maiden name, but Gregory Goyle did not seem to mind. It was a bit of a surprise to us, but fitting. Greg had cared for Perpetua “Fannie” Fancourt for three years before she finally succumbed to age and passed peacefully. All the while, it seemed that Pansy and Greg had reconnected.   
  
I was happy for them.  
  
Living as we did, I supposed, I was happy as well. Severus and I never formally married though we lived under a shared assumed name. We were a family, albeit an odd one. Severus never really took to being a father; he had no natural instinct to be fatherly. That did not mean that he hated the children, in fact, he was quite caring, but there were times that Haddie would try to play with Severus, only to end up sobbing. Severus was not playful. He was the disciplinarian; he was respected, but not feared.  
  
Many times, he took on his official ‘Potions Master’ tone to frighten the children, but soon, they would laugh and hug his legs, finding him endearing. It frustrated Severus, but afterwards, he would smirk to himself.  
  
Helena was very much like Severus in attitude, but she was almost a carbon copy of me at her age. She had my eyes and hair, but she had Severus’ bone structure and lean form. Hadrian, on the other hand, was a little Severus with the same ebony hair and eyes. Haddie had my attitude.   
  
It was strange how genetics manifest in our children.  
  
Later that day, we met Ipo-lani along the path to the beach. The children ran to her, speaking in the local dialectal Hawaiian. The children had learned it from the Robinson boys; further frustrating Severus’ efforts to teach basic Latin and Greek.  
  
Ipo-lani winked at me before gathering Haddie in her strong arms and taking Helena’s hand. Ipo-lani was several years older than I was, but she too, like so many of our magical neighbors, was ageless.   
  
I adored her.  
  
Severus had washed before our walk to the beach, and his clothes, a pair of khaki trousers and loose white shirt, smelled of ginger. He walked a few steps ahead of me, his hands shoved into his pockets. I trailed behind, my bare feet rolling over the dark soil under the bamboo trees. The sound of the sea soon filled my ears as we emerged onto a white sand beach settle between the arms of two green mountains. We had walked along a natural valley to the beach, which was hidden from the Muggle tourists as part of the domain of the Wizarding population on the island.  
  
The sun was setting behind the western mountain, but the light upon the water made the little bay glow green and white. We walked along the tide, the warm water a balm to our bare feet. For about a year after moving to Kauai, the sound of the sea caused many sleepless nights for us both, the sound reminding us too much of what we had to endure thanks to Ron Weasley. Soon, however, Severus’ hand found mine as we walked on the beach, grasping my left hand while my ruined right hand slipped into the pocket of my cargoes.  
  
Moments of tenderness were plenty, but rarely did we have time alone. We sat down in the sand just out of the reach of the tide, the waves rolling and crashing in the distance.  
  
“It is still so much like a dream,” I said finally, breaking the perfection of the silence.  
  
Severus held my hand in his lap, our eyes gazing out across the clear sea.  
  
“After so long, I am still afraid I am going to wake up,” I continued. “If it weren’t for this hand…” I pulled my right hand from my pocket and stared at the curled and thin fingers, then to the design scarred into my palm. “I would think I had died and gone to some version of heaven.”  
  
“You should have named Haddie after Lucius,” Severus grumbled, still grouchy. Severus often made this statement when I waxed rhapsodic about our home.  
  
Lucius Malfoy had been the one responsible for so much of our life as it was. In the weeks during my convalescence, Severus had gone to Lucius, as he had promised after we saved him. I still did not know what Severus told the man, but it was enough to give us a place to escape and hide. How Lucius knew of Kauai was another one of life’s mysteries. Money was of no importance here, but still Lucius gave what money he could to pay the tuition for Helena and Haddie to go to whatever Wizarding Academy they wanted.  
  
Uncle Lucy is what the children called him. “Never to his face!” I would admonish.  
  
I was never sure of what sort of father Lucius Malfoy had been to his own son, but he was a doting ‘uncle.’ Every month a package would arrive loaded with candy or toys from Britain, and once a year, usually around New Years, Lucius would arrive in Kauai to bring more gifts to the children. I had very little to do with Lucius Malfoy, and usually kept out of the way. Lucius was polite, but aloof whenever we spoke, which usually consisted of only a few words. It was Severus and the children Lucius was interested in, and as long as he did not interfere with our raising of the children, I had no qualms with the man.  
  
He looked better than when Severus and I saved him. It seemed that depression at the crumbled reputation of his family name had done damage more to Lucius’ body than his mind. After so many years, he looked healthy despite his natural pallour. He was strong, imposing, roguishly handsome, and just as devious as ever. Ipo-lani called Lucius a kupua, a heroic trickster, or a demi-god.  
  
Severus’ usual cutting personality did not change when Lucius visited, and Lucius only found delight in harassing my companion. Under it all, I knew that Severus enjoyed Lucius’ short visits. The friendship the men shared would always remain another mystery.  
  
“Do you regret coming here?” I asked quietly, a question he had asked me many times over the six years.  
  
“Besides the hard work, the rain, and the overabundance of sun, no.”  
  
I smiled, burying my ruined hand in the sand next to me. I could still feel the grains of fine hands running over my scar and the back of my hands, but my fingers had little feeling.  
  
I glanced to Severus who had been watching my motion. He would study my hand when he believed I was not looking. The children found it fascinating, but Severus, he found it horrifying.  
  
“Do you?” he asked, turning his onyx eyes back to the waves.  
  
I frowned. “Regret coming here? No.   
  
The children were born here. It is their home. Taking them back to Britain would be a shock, not just for them, but also to me. Besides, the hard work, the rain, and the overabundance of sun have done us both some good.”  
  
“I suppose,” Severus sighed somewhat wistfully.  
  
My frown deepened. “You want to leave?”  
  
Severus stiffened at my question. “No.”  
  
“Then what is it?” I whispered, squeezing his large, work worn hand.  
  
Severus sighed. “It’s news.”  
  
I cocked my head to the side.  
  
“Manu brought a letter from Potter this morning…”  
  
“And you didn’t tell me?”  
  
Severus licked his lips and turned his tanned face to me, the breeze off the waves rustling the longer black hair atop his head, blowing a few strands about his dark brow.  
  
“I wanted to wait, until I heard more…”  
  
I swallowed thickly. Severus had not merely been grumpy because of the children.  
  
“The Wizengamot will probably been sending a summons for you to appear before them in the next month.”  
  
I sighed, closing my eyes and pressing my forehead into Severus’ shoulder.  
  
“Six years… It took them six years to begin building a case.”  
  
Severus said nothing, but wrapped his arm about my shoulders pulling me closer. I inhaled the ginger scent of his shirt, where, faintly, I could smell anise.  
  
“The Wizengamot is granting you a moratorium of sorts until the trial ends. Potter has given them our memories and before long, the name of Severus Snape could be resurrected for the whole world to know.”  
  
I ground my teeth. The implications would ruin everything, our family, our home…  
  
“Potter is doing what he can to prevent your summons, but Shacklebolt wants this over as much as we do. The public has to know the truth; now that the threat is gone…” he trailed.  
  
I opened my eyes and pulled away slightly to gaze up into Severus’ face. “Ron may be mad, Avalon may be lost forever, but there is still a threat, Severus.”  
  
His eyes widened for a moment. “What do you…?”  
  
“Think of all who we killed, if it were our children, wouldn’t you want some form of retribution?”  
  
Severus frowned. “Personal attacks?”  
  
I nodded. “And if  _you_  are outed…”  
  
Severus sighed. Even after the War, and the truth of his role revealed, there were still those who wished Severus something worse than death or imprisonment.  
  
“And what about Helena and Haddie? They are so young, they would never understand why we had to go back…”  
  
“Lucius would take care of Helena and Haddie. Potter and his wife would raise them…”  
  
I groaned and rolled away, standing in the sand. I did not want to think about it. I moved to the tide, the waves washing in over my ankles. We had made arrangements early for the children. Lucius would act as benefactor, Harry and Ginny would see that they were raised. It had been a contingency that I had hoped would never occur.  
  
“It will take time for the Ministry to track us here,” Severus said moving to my right side, having rolled up his trousers to his knobby knees. “Lucius and I chose this place because it was so protected.”  
  
I licked my lips, tasting salt from the sea spray. “I would not expose our community here to outsiders,” I said softly, thinking of the Robinsons and the dozen other families who preferred not to be noticed by outside organizations. Ipo-lani’s cousin who lived in seclusion in the jungle was once wanted by the MACUSA Aurory for the murder of a Muggle in Seattle a decade before. There were others who were ‘fugitives’ of sorts, down trodden by circumstance and fate, all who lived around us, all who were good people, all I trusted.  
  
“We can leave, go somewhere else. China, or Russia…”  
  
“No!” I snapped, whirling upon Severus, my eyes burning. “If I must go, I will. I will not bring the Ministry here. They do not belong. The children can stay with Ipo-lani and Maoka…”  
  
“You cannot expect them to agree to something like that, Hermione. They have three sons…”  
  
“And Harry has three of his own. I do not want Helena or Haddie to step foot in Britain until they are old enough to understand why we left!”  
  
Severus said nothing, but stared back at me, eyes narrowed.   
  
When he took my ruined hand, I winced instinctually. He ran his fingertips over the scar and over the back of my hand.  
  
“I said once that I would not go without you, and if I had to kneel beside you to await the Kiss, I would. I still mean that, Hermione Granger,” he growled as he raised my wasted hand to his cheek.   
  
I licked my lips as his lips brushed over the back of my hand. “You also asked me if I loved you and I said I wanted to try?”  
  
Severus nodded, the tip of his hooked nose brushing the permanently bent knuckles in my fingers.  
  
“I do love you. No matter how foul or how fatalistic you can be… I love you.”  
  
Severus smiled into my hand as I sloshed through the tide to stand before him, my left hand grasping his face.  
  
“And if I do get the Kiss for all the sins I have committed, you will not be by my side.”  
  
Severus’ smile faded.   
  
“You need to raise our children, because, if Harry Potter ended up raising them…well, I’m sure Grimmauld Place does not have room for any more poltergeists and foul, vindictive things that make the place any more unpleasant.”  
  
He barked a laugh. “ _Why did_  we plan to have Potter raise them?”  
  
“Because Lucius would spoil them, and Draco’s Scorpius might end up being bullied.”  
  
I smiled. Our children were the perfect mix of Snape and Granger. I did not want to imagine where they would be Sorted if they had to go to Hogwarts.  
  
I fell into Severus’ arms then, the fear returning. We had had six years in paradise, and I wondered how many more minutes, hours, or days we had left. Time was a mortal enemy, and as we kissed in the sunset, I tried to imagine how our lives would continue from that point on.  
  
We were together, by choice. We had made a home and a family, by choice.  
  
We had changed very little from what we once were, but love had made all the difference. I loved Severus Snape. He had given me my children, and he had given me a life. To leave such a thing behind would be akin to tearing my soul.  
  
In the darkness, we moved along the beach, hand in hand. As the moon rose, we made camp, and talked of all the silly little things our children did, of things we had done on our travel to the island. We smirked and jested about the time I had to find a new wand in New Orleans, or the time that we were stopped by Muggle police in Mexico City. We leaned into each other, watching the fire I had built, the moon, and the stars too large over our heads.  
  
This was happiness to me, as improbable it might have seemed to me seven years before. I pushed aside thoughts of the future to live in the moment I had with the man who had effectively turned my world upside down, only to set it straight again so far away from home. He had answered a half formed wish, giving me my own Eden.  
  
The power of Avalon had waned; a new age was about to rise. The Knights were no longer needed, and I prayed to the moon that I would not be called again to fight another Dark Lord. I had only one ‘lord’ in my life, and he was all I ever wanted.  
  
And so it would be, forever, if I wanted, that I would be Hermione Prince, a simple witch raising her children, loving her mate, and forgetting Merlin, Nimue, or Avalon ever existed. ‘Damnatio memoriae.’ That part of my life never was, and never would be again.  
  
  
**_End_**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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